


Humble Folks Without Temptation

by ForthwrittenScourge



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Diabetes, Drugs, F/M, One Shot Collection, South Park: The Fractured But Whole, South Park: The Stick of Truth, Swearing, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 48,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23850208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForthwrittenScourge/pseuds/ForthwrittenScourge
Summary: Come on down to South Park and meet some one-shots of mine!
Relationships: Clyde Donovan/Reader, Craig Tucker/Reader, Jimmy Valmer/Reader, Kenny McCormick/Reader, Kyle Broflovski/Reader, Leopold "Butters" Stotch/Reader, Pete Thelman/Reader, Scott Malkinson/Reader, Stan Marsh/Reader, Token Black/Reader, Tweek Tweak/Reader
Comments: 29
Kudos: 165





	1. Her Return: Leopold "Butters" Stotch/Reader (Platonic)

"Dudes," Cartman started, setting his tray on the lunch table and looking at his friends conspiratorially. "Something is wrong with Butters."

"What do you mean?" Stan asked around a mouthful of instant mashed potatoes.

"He's like... Happy." Cartman continued, looking around the lunchroom until he spotted the offending blond bouncing excitedly at another table.

"And... You have a problem with that?" Kyle asked.

"Yes I do, Kahl! He should be fidgeting and acting like a pussy!" Cartman retorted, crossing his arms irritatedly.

"Who said he wasn't still acting like a pussy?" Kenny's muffled voice chimed in.

"... Good point. But he shouldn't be smiling like that! He's acting like he's got something to be happy about and that just isn't right! He's Butters, for Christ's sake!" Cartman complained.

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Why can't you let anyone other than you be-"

"Fellas!" Butters cut in, having run over while the boys were starting their argument. "Fellas, guess what?"

"What, your balls finally dropped? Doesn't sound like it." Cartman sighed.

"Uh, no! At least, I don't think so..." Butters rubbed his knuckles together. "What I wanted you to guess was that my older sister is coming back today!" He smiled.

"You have an older sister?" Stan asked.

"Why haven't we heard about her?" Kyle added.

"Why would we care?" Cartman shot back.

"Is she hot?" Kenny propped his head up on his hand.

"Yeah, I do! I, I guess I just never mentioned her before. We never really talked about our families much when I was hangin' out with you guys-" He rambled until Cartman cut him off.

"Yeah, yeah, we don't care. Why don't you go talk about your lame-ass family with someone else, Butters?" He groaned.

"Oh, uh, okay... I'll see you later, fellas." Butters replied, looking down and walking off.

"Ahahaha! Now _that's_ what Butters should look like!" Cartman boomed.

"You are such a fucking asshole, man." Kyle glared at him.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Jew-boy."

"Dude, I'm wondering about that sister. He never mentioned if she was hot or not..." Kenny pondered, his eyes sparkling at all the possibilities, all the wonderfully dirty-

The bell rang, and everyone got up to dump their trays. Thoughts of the unknown Stotch faded with the hustle and bustle of the rest of the school day, and her existence was pretty much erased for all but one student:

One very excited Butters.

\-----

Opting to skip the bus in case the 20 minute commute would outlast his sister's visit, Butters dashed home. He got there in about 10 minutes at a full sprint and, sapped of his energy, he stumbled through the doorway.

"Mom! Dad! Is she here yet? Is she here-"

"Butters!" His father yelled, stomping through the kitchen and into the living room. "What did I tell you about running into the house after school and yelling?"

Immediately, the boy deflated.

"N- Not to do it..." He toed the carpet.

"That's right! You know what? You're-"

All of a sudden, a head popped out from behind the kitchen doorway, followed by a body, followed by outstretched arms and a wide smile that were fast approaching.

"(Y/N)!" Butters exclaimed, running into her arms.

"Butters! Hey, squirt, I missed you!" She grinned, squeezing him tight.

"I missed you too, sissy! Gee whiz, it's been a long while since you've been back in South Park, huh?" He threw his arms around her neck.

"Yeah, yeah it has." She set him down. "I must've missed a lot. What's been going on since I left?"

Butters' eyes lit up and he was off like a shot, dragging her over to the couch.

"Well, one of my friends went goth and then switched back when he realized it was stupid, and there was this really cool robot, and the humans of Zaron and the elves of Larnion had a big war over the Stick of Truth, and then Coon and Friends and the Freedom Pals were fighting over who had the better franchise, and-"

"Butters!" Mr. Stotch once again interrupted him. "What have I told you about going on and on like that?"

"That no one cares enough about me to listen to me talk so much..." He hung his head guiltily.

"And just for that, you're-"

"Hey, Butters, I'm hearing a lot about what's happened, but not a lot about what you've been doing. Where were you in all this?" (Y/N) nudged him, and he instantly perked up.

"Let's see... When that friend was goth, I-"

" _Butters!_ "

His sister frowned. "Let's continue this conversation up in your room. That sound good to you?"

"I- I guess." Butters conceded, getting up and starting to trudge up the stairs.

His sister sat for a second, staring at their father. The imposing man was standing there with his arms crossed, tapping his foot with a scowl on his face. As soon as he turned to look at her, she was rushing up the stairs after her little brother.

Once his bedroom door was shut behind him, effectively locking out the oppressing aura of his father, Butters' countenance changed instantly. His hunched shoulders straightened up, and his downcast look was replaced by a smile. While such a change would otherwise be welcomed by his older sister, she couldn't help but frown even more.

"I almost forgot!" He said, rushing over to his hamster cage and gesturing wildly towards it. "(Y/N), these are my new hamsters, but they also lead double lives as the minions of a dangerous super villain!"

"Oh yeah?" Her lips quirked up. "What dangerous super villain? I don't remember any particularly menacing figures around here. Well, with the exception of Barbra Streisand that one time..."

"His name... Is Professor Chaos! And, and he's very famous around here! Why, one time, he even tried to drown the whole world!"

"Wow, really? Sounds like a dangerous guy. Do you know who he is?" She smirked knowingly.

Butters was quick to back down, wringing his hands together. "W- Well, I sorta do, but his identity is a secret, so I also sorta don't. Oh, but if I say I don't, I'd be telling a fib, and I shouldn't be fibbin'. But if I tell you who he is-"

"BUTTERS!"

The siblings flinched.

"WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT KEEPING YOUR VOLUME DOWN IN THE HOUSE?"

"Sorry, sir!" Butters yelled back.

" _WHAT DID I JUST SAY-_ "

"Hey, dad!" (Y/N) interrupted, opening the door to Butters' room. "Do you know when dinner's gonna be ready?"

"Oh, uh, I dunno, (Y/N). I'll go ask your mother." Her father walked into the kitchen, and she closed the door softly, turning around to look at her nervous little brother.

"Hey, Butters, can we talk?"

"Well, I thought we were talking!" He protested.

"Yeah, we were, but I mean, _can we have a talk?_ " (Y/N) clarified.

"Oh jeez, that means I'm in trouble, doesn't it?" Butters sat down on his bed dejectedly.

"No! No, see, this is what I want to talk about: How often do mom and dad ground you?" She knelt down in front of him, levelling her voice.

He looked away, fiddling with his fingers. "Uh, I- I dunno... Every other week or so, I guess."

"Every other week?! Why?" She exclaimed, shocked.

"Well, that's 'cuz I'm a bad little boy, and I need strict discipline. I'm always actin' up, a- and the only way to fix that is to crush my spirit!" He gave her a firm look.

She was absolutely dumbfounded. What the hell were they doing to her poor little brother?

"Butters, you're wrong."

"What?" He looked like he couldn't believe his ears.

"You're wrong. You aren't a bad little boy, Butters. You're a good kid. I don't know what mom and dad have been telling you, but you don't deserve to be grounded that much." She stood up only to sit down next to him, throwing an arm around him.

"B- But mom and dad told me-"

"Have you ever wondered if mom and dad are wrong?" (Y/N) cut him off.

"... No?" He replied, puzzled.

She sighed. "Butters, they are our parents, but that doesn't mean they're always right. And this time, they're not. You're _not_ a bad kid, you _shouldn't_ be grounded all the time, and you _don't_ deserve to be yelled at for everything you do. In the time I've been home, you haven't done a single thing wrong, but dad has tried to ground you like three times!"

"I haven't?" Butters looked up at her hopefully.

"No! You haven't, squirt." She rubbed his arm up and down. "And you shouldn't say that you have. Remember, Butters- you're a _good_ kid."

"I don't know... Mom and dad are always tellin' me-" The blond started, rubbing his knuckles together.

" **Leopold.** " His sister gave him a dead serious look, and he froze in place. No one ever called him Leopold, _ever_. She must've been really serious, he reasoned, and with those kind eyes and the comforting hold she had on him... Well, he really wanted to believe her.

So he did.

"Okay... I'm a good kid." He replied, defeated.

The smile she gave him made it all worth it. "Glad you think so. Now, I think I should-"

"Butters! Dinner's ready! You have exactly one minute to wash up and get to the table or you are grounded! Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight..."

"Oh, hamburgers!" The little boy exclaimed, rushing out of his room and to the bathroom.

"(Y/N), honey, you can come down for dinner anytime you'd like!" Mrs. Stotch called from the bottom of the stairs. (Y/N) couldn't help but roll her eyes, but she got up and went to wash her hands downstairs anyway.

She sat down at the table, and Butters was quick to join, reaching his seat by the count of twenty-three. Everyone started plating their food in an awkward silence, and it wasn't until everyone started eating that (Y/N) decided it was time to speak.

"Hey, dad?" She asked, picking at her broccoli.

"Yes, dear?" He set his glass down, looking at her attentively.

"I think..." She set her cutlery down and stared him right in the eye. "I think you guys are too hard on Butters."

Suddenly, even the quiet clinking of forks on plates ceased. Mr. and Mrs. Stotch fixed (Y/N) with a pointed look, and Butters stared purposefully at his plate, shoulders tensed. The entire family turned to stone.

"I don't see what you mean." Her father retorted.

She gave an awkward laugh. "I think you do."

"Well, why does it matter what you _think?_ "

"Because he's my little brother, and I want what's best for him. I'd imagine that you would, too." Her eyes narrowed, fed up with how defensive he was.

"He may be your little brother, but he's our son, which means that we have a say in what happens to him and you don't. End of discussion." He stated firmly.

"No, not 'end of discussion,' because you're hurting him."

"What do you mean, 'hurting him'?" Her father looked at her incredulously. "I feed him, clothe him, and house him, and you call that hurting him? Do you see any bruises on him, (Y/N)?"

"No, but you guys are hurting him emotionally! He sat up there on his bed and told me that he's a bad boy who needs to get his spirit crushed! Coming from a kid, that is sick, and there's only one place he could've gotten that!" She protested.

"Oh, so you assume it's us?" Stephen crossed his arms angrily.

"Yes! Because you've been yelling at Butters for nothing since he got home! You tried grounding him three times, but I wouldn't let you, because he didn't even do anything!"

"Oh yes he did! He broke our rules!" He boomed.

"What rules? You never yelled at me for any of this when I was his age!" She raised her voice to match his.

"Because you didn't act up as much!"

" _Bullshit!_ " (Y/N) cried, slamming a hand onto the table.

"That is bullshit and you know it! Butters gets good grades in school, he doesn't ever get sent to the principal's office, he doesn't make trouble for you, and he doesn't even use curse words! I was way worse than that!"

"W- Well... Butters breaks house rules all the time!" Her father made a flaccid attempt at a rebuttal, but she scoffed.

"House rules? Yeah, maybe yelling in the house is a rule, but you don't ground a kid for the first offense! And you don't ground a kid for talking about himself, and tell him no one cares about him, and then yell at him again for raising his voice when he wasn't even that loud!"

"I don't have to explain myself to you! I am your father!" He screamed, punching the tabletop.

It was then that Butters felt something fall into his lap. He looked down (which wasn't hard- he was hunched over as much as he physically could be because the screaming was making him anxious) just to see his sister's cell phone on his leg, the notepad app open to one single, confusing sentence:

"How fast can you run?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Butters typed his response and clandestinely plopped the phone back into (Y/N)'s lap.

With a quick glance down, she ignored her father's latest logical fallacy and read her brother's response:

"Not very fast."

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, young lady!"

Quickly, her eyes snapped to her father, and she snarled.

"You aren't talking to me, you're talking at me. And I don't agree with a single thing you're saying. Just because you're Butters' father doesn't mean that you can do whatever you want with him. And you've got mom totally cowed! She hasn't said a damn word against you while you've spent years abusing Butters!"

"Hey! Don't you dare disrespect your mother like that!"

"I'm not! I'm stating the truth!"

"If you're gonna sit there and undermine my authority in my own household, insult my wife, and tell me how to raise _my_ son, then you... YOU'RE GROUNDED!" Stephen screamed, standing up and knocking his chair over in the process.

"You can't ground me! I'm an adult, and I don't even live here anymore! Why do you think I never came back home after I went to college, huh? You always do this! You think you have absolute power, but you don't!" She yelled back.

"DON'T YOU TALK TO ME THAT WAY, YOU LITTLE-"

"Butters!" His head snapped in his sister's direction as a hand was thrust in front of him. "Will you come with me?"

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? YOU CAN'T TAKE MY SON FROM-"

"Butters, _will you come with me?_ "

"BUTTERS, DON'T YOU DARE GO WITH HER OR YOU ARE GROUNDED!"

Butters looked up at his sister as their father continued to scream, tuning him out for a moment. Her eyes were alight with something wild, something he hadn't seen since they were both much younger. It was loving and warm, childlike and free.

In half a heartbeat, he took her hand.

Suddenly, he was in his sister's arms, being carried out of the front door. His father's yelling faded into the background as she ran with him, laughing loudly enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

Still charging down the street, she sucked in enough breath to force out a full sentence. "We'll have to go back sometime, Butters, but it doesn't have to be soon. Hey, wanna get some ice cream?"

All he could do was look up at her. "... Like old times?"

She smirked down at him. "Like old times."

"And, and we're not gonna get grounded, at least for a little while?"

"Nope."

"... Can I get mint chocolate swirl?"

"Of course you can, squirt."

It was then, and only then, that Butters let himself smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first set of South Park one-shots, and requests are currently open!
> 
> I realize that this is platonic and not romantic, but Butters needs more love in general!
> 
> Sorry that this first one was really dialogue-heavy, there's not a whole lot of action to be had in a scenario like this. I'll try to make them better in the future. I also usually use second person point of view, but I decided to experiment with third person this time. Which do you guys prefer?
> 
> That being said, what can I improve upon? What do you guys want to see? Let me know in the comments!


	2. ManBearPig: Kyle Broflovski/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reader insert of season 10, episode 6, "ManBearPig."

"Groan! Groan!"

The entire tour stopped in its tracks to face the shouting ex-vice president, staring at him in bewilderment. You couldn't help but sigh, leaning over to Stan to whisper in his ear.

"Remind me why we're following this douchebag again?"

"Look, he doesn't have any friends, and I just feel bad for him, you know? It's not like a tour through the Cave of the Winds will kill us." He replied.

"Who gives a crap about that? I'm here because he said he could get me out of school!" Cartman butted in.

"Yes, we're aware you have no conscience, Cartman." You said, rolling your eyes.

Before he could curse you to kingdom come, the tour kept going, and soon enough Al Gore was rushing to a random opening and motioning you over with a "Kids! Kids, over here! Look."

"What?" Kyle asked.

"I bet this is where he's hiding," Gore murmured, waving his flashlight around. "This looks like ManBearPig Central. Come on!"

He started on his path, and you and the boys looked between each other uncertainly.

"Come on! This is where ManBearPig is! I'm serial!" He urged, and reluctantly, you followed.

"Mr. Gore, I- I think we should stay with the tour group." Stan pressed, looking around with his discomfort written clearly on his face.

"Wait! Shhh." The man commanded, stopping in his tracks. A noise sounded through the cave, something that you could very obviously tell was wind, but nonetheless Gore's mouth dropped open in shock. "Christ! He's here! Take this rope," he exclaimed, shoving a coil of rope into Stan's arms. "Be ready to tie him up!"

As Stan fumbled with the tangled cord, Gore whipped out a 12-gauge and cried "I've got you now, you son of a bitch!" before shooting blindly into the cave.

"Dude, what the fuck?!" You cried, ducking out of the way.

"What are you doing?!" Kyle screamed.

The ceiling started to cave in, its internal structure jostled by the shotgun blasts. Rocks rained down in larger and larger chunks, forcing everyone to dodge them until finally a boulder wedged itself between your friends and Al Gore.

"Oh no!" Stan yelped.

"No!" Gore yelled, and everyone screamed as the path was completely sealed.

Faintly, you could hear Gore yelling more nonsense about ManBearPig, ignoring your screams for help. "Damn you ManBearPig! They're just children!" He raged, answered only by more rumbling and crashing in the cave.

"Hello?" Kyle called once the rumbling had stopped.

"Help!" Stan yelled.

"We're trapped in here!" Kyle continued.

"Somebody come help us down hyah!" Cartman screeched.

"Anyone? Please!" You begged.

"Hello, help!"

"Hello?" 

"Hello!" Even Kenny tried his luck, as futile as it was.

"Help!"

"Forget it, they can't hear us!" Kyle interrupted the cacophony.

"What are we gonna do?" Kenny looked to Kyle worriedly.

"You'd better get us out of here, asshole!" Cartman squawked, pointing a finger at Stan.

"Me?!" Stan asked incredulously.

"You just had to go and be nice to Al Gore! Now we're trapped in a cave!" Cartman snarled, gritting his teeth.

Stan turned and pointed his flashlight further into the cave, taking a few uncertain steps forward. "Maybe there's another way out of here." He suggested.

"Oh, no kidding!" Kenny chimed in as everyone turned towards the only path they had left, shining their lights over the walls and floor.

"So, what exactly are we gonna do?" You wondered aloud, walking slightly ahead of the group.

"A- All right, let's split up and look for a passageway. E- Everyone take a different direction." Kyle announced, and everyone fanned out.

You looked down your chosen path, a narrow alley between Stan and Cartman's chosen routes. It was dark, cramped, and about as uninviting as it could possibly be.

"Well, we're fucked either way," you mumbled, swallowing your unease and starting to squeeze yourself into the space between a fallen boulder and a stalactite only to realize that there was no way that you were getting through with your current attire.

You cursed, wriggling out of the interstice just to unzip your coat and throw it to the ground. Without the puffy extra layer, you were able to slip through the crack with relative ease, dropping down on the other side and wiping your sooty hands on your t-shirt. Refocusing the beam of your flashlight ahead of you, you saw that there were even more rocks to climb over with even less room for you to squeeze through. Oh, joy.

A yell pierced the eerie stillness. "You see anything, Kenny?" Kyle's voice echoed. You could just barely hear Kenny's muffled response, and ignored Kyle's call for Cartman as you climbed the next boulders and shoved yourself through the opening between them.

This time, you landed almost instantly, as if the ground was rising to meet you. Waving your flashlight around, you realized that you were facing an incline paired with an incredibly short ceiling made even more compact by the stones jutting out of it. The space was claustrophobic, and as you took a few steps forward only to hit your head on the ceiling, you decided it would be best to crawl through it. Dropping to your hands and knees, you braved the slope, wincing when the sharper pebbles caught the skin of your palms. When you finally crested it, you found yourself at- what else- another wall of fallen rocks, but luckily enough this part of the passage was more chamber-like than the others.

Standing up, you took a moment to breathe, leaning against the nearest wall and observing your surroundings with your flashlight. The ceiling was significantly higher in this part of the cave, making you feel much more at ease, but there were so many boulders littering the floor that there wasn't room for much more than standing. In the far distance, you could hear Kyle talking again, but opted to ignore it- it was so muffled by the cave that you could barely hear it anyway. Taking a deep breath and coughing it back out (along with an unhealthy amount of dust), you began to climb the next wall of fallen stone. The opening on this one was scarily high, but you steeled yourself with your newfound mantra of "We're fucked either way." If it got you and the guys a way out, it would definitely be worth it.

Finding a crevice between the rocks to work with, you quickly realized that there was no way you were getting up there with your flashlight in your hand. Experimenting with various pockets and methods of holding it, you also realized that there was no other way to carry it. Not wanting to leave it behind just to fall off a cliff thanks to the subsequent blindness, you took half a second to think before coming up with a decent plan: you would chuck it through the hole at the top, and then pick it up on the other side.

That was easier said than done. You took your first shot at it and missed, the flashlight bouncing off a rock and tumbling back down to you. You wound your arm back for the second try and got a similar result, only this time you managed to catch it before it smashed against the floor. The third time was most definitely not the charm as you whipped it harder, only to have it crash onto the ground with even more force, causing the bulb to go out with a sharp noise.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you whispered to yourself, running your hand on the ground desperately in order to find the fallen tool. It was situated a few feet to the right of you, and as luck would have it, it turned back on with a couple sharp smacks. Sure, the glass in front of the bulb was now cracked, and the light was dimmer than you would have liked, but at least it still worked. You were definitely unsure of your plan now- one more toss might break the thing entirely- but you had no better ideas, and thus lobbed the thing at the opening. This time, you made your mark, and after taking a moment to fist pump and feel good about yourself, you continued your climb. It was a lot harder without light, but you used your hands to find solid places to grab and your feet to scrabble for footholds, and eventually made your way up the mountainous pile. After a while, your hand brushed a flat surface above the rocks, which you reasoned was the ceiling. This was your cue to start climbing to the left in search of the hole, which you found when you reached your left hand over and were met with nothing, giving you a short heart attack.

Finally! You sidled to the left a bit more, putting all your weight on the rock just below the hole and starting to climb through the opening.

What you weren't prepared for was the rock moving in response to your weight, tipping forward as you crawled over it.

"Oh shit!" You cried, trying to scramble backwards, but it was too late. The rock tumbled forward, slipping into a dark abyss, and it took you down with it. You were too terrified to scream, your breath catching in your throat as you fell down, down, down. The boulder twisted out of your grasp, and you were left on your own to somersault into oblivion.

Realistically, the fall only lasted a few minutes, but in the sprawling expanse of nothing, it could have been hours for all you could tell. It ended suddenly and horribly as you landed flat on your stomach, belly-flopping onto the cold stone floor with a dull thud. Your face bounced off the floor, punching your lips into your teeth and your nose into your skull, and all of a sudden there were colors floating out of the darkness. Purple, white, and red danced across your vision as something warm trickled out of your nose. You spat a similar fluid out of your mouth, tangy and sickening.

Wait, wasn't Kyle talking just a minute ago? Where was he? Where were any of your friends? Where were you?

"Fuck." You mumbled, before your eyes rolled back into your head and everything became nothing.

What you didn't know was that minutes earlier, the boys had just convened. What you had heard whispers of through the cave had actually sounded a lot more like this:

"It looks like we're completely sealed in," Kyle mused, answered by a "Yeah, no shit," from an approaching Kenny.

Stan padded back to the two. "There's a small passageway about two hundred yards over there, but... It goes for a long, long way and it's pretty steep." He reported.

"Maybe we should go for it," Kyle wondered, when Cartman returned to offer his sentiments.

"You guys go on ahead. I'm gonna... Stay here, wait it out." He said, making the other three turn around and look at him suspiciously.

"Why?" Kyle prodded.

"I just... I- I don't feel very good. I'll just, I'll just weigh you guys down." Cartman explained, looking everywhere but at Kyle.

"Cartman's right," Stan cut in. "First rule of survival is stay put and wait to be rescued."

"No, it's okay. You guys go on ahead." Cartman urged.

"No, we'll stay here too." Kyle affirmed, turning to address all the boys. "If we start wandering off, we're gonna get lost or killed. Let's just wait here and hope help comes soon."

"That's cool. I just... I just wouldn't go over there if I were you guys." Cartman fumbled, pointing a finger to the passage he had just gone down. "I just took a huge dump."

Kyle lifted his jacket over his nose in an attempt to block the smell. "Aw, dude!" He complained, glaring at Cartman.

"Wait," Kyle started, dropping his jacket in favor of peering around the cave.

"What?" Cartman asked, swallowing his apprehension.

Kyle's eyes narrowed. "There's someth-" He cut himself off mid-sentence, realizing what was wrong before he even had a chance to mention it. "Where's (Y/N)?"

"Oh shit." Kenny said, eyes widening.

"(Y/N)? Where are you?" Kyle continued, and all the boys waited in complete silence for any kind of response. No dice.

"Fuck!" He cried, turning to the other boys. "Where did she go?"

"Last I saw her, she was to the left of me." Stan replied, pointing in the general direction that he saw her go. Instantly, Kyle set off in that direction, and the others followed.

"(Y/N)!" Kyle cried.

"(Y/N), this isn't fucking funny!" Cartman whined.

"Where the hell are you?" Kenny yelled.

Soon the guys reached the first rock-laden crevice, and seeing no sign of you anywhere, tried getting through it. Kyle went first, but was quickly impeded by his coat.

"I can't fit, my coat's too thick!" He exclaimed, feeling the first stages of panic dredging themselves out of his stomach.

Kenny was about to try his luck when Stan pointed to a lump sitting abandoned by the cave wall. "Look!" He commanded, and everyone turned to him, quickly refocusing their gazes on the object in question.

Kyle took a few steps closer and knelt down, picking it up.

"It's (Y/N)'s coat..." He confirmed, squeezing the fabric in his fist.

All four boys went completely silent. None of them, Cartman included, wanted to think of what your abandoned coat meant.

Abruptly, Kyle stood, dropping your coat and his flashlight in order to unzip his own coat and rip it off his shoulders. He threw it to the ground, snatched his flashlight back up, and turned to face the gap between the rocks.

"I'm going in after her." He stated the obvious, voice firm.

Wordlessly, the remaining three shed their own jackets, and onward they crept into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me ages to get this one out because I was binging all of South Park and I didn't want to write this one until I finished. I wrote the last one-shot while I was watching South Park and that's part of the reason why it's so bad- multitasking is hard and my brain was split in two. It took me about a week to finish all 23 seasons, so that's why it's been so long since I've released something.
> 
> This one ran a little long, so I cut it off before the story could actually reach a resolution. If anyone is interested in seeing a finale, say so in the comments.
> 
> Anyway, feedback is much appreciated!


	3. Bikes: Stan Marsh/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not based off of anything in particular. You and Stan get away from it all.
> 
> Also, since I didn't specify earlier, the characters will be aged up for any romantic fics. I don't give an age, but assume that you're in your teen years. For platonic fics, there's really no set age, but you can pretty much guess what age the characters are supposed to be.

You wiped the sweat from your brow and knocked on the door of the modest farmhouse in front of you. After a short wait, the brown door swung inward, revealing Mrs. Marsh behind the screen.

"(Y/N)?" She asked, staring at you in bewilderment. She peered over your shoulder and, catching sight of your dirty bike standing on the unpaved driveway, quickly opened the screen door and ushered you in.

"Did you bike all the way over here?" She continued, shocked.

"Yep." You responded, tucking your hands into the pockets of your jeans as you stood just inside the doorway. Your shoes were covered in muck, and tracking it in meant that either you or Stan would end up cleaning it.

"And I'm assuming you're here to see Stanley?" She raised a brow.

"Yep." You repeated.

"Well, he's in his room. Want me to go get him?"

"Yep- uh, yes please." You corrected, picking at the seams of your pockets. Sharon gave you a bemused smile before retreating further into the house with a cry of "Stan! (Y/N)'s here to see you!"

It didn't take long for him to come padding into the living room, clad in his usual blue jeans and white t-shirt.

"Hey (Y/N), what's up?" He greeted, crossing his arms casually. He leaned a bit too far to the right and had to catch his balance.

"I wanted to see if you wanted to go out for a bit." You replied.

"Oh, uh, sure. Mom!" He yelled, turning back towards where she probably was. "I'm going out for a while with (Y/N)!"

"Okay!" Came her reply. "Make sure you take your phone and your keys!"

He padded back into his room for a second and returned with both of the aforementioned objects in hand. "Alright, love you, bye!" He called, slipping on his shoes and leaving with you before she could respond.

Once the door was shut and locked, Stan turned to see you mounting up on your bike. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"You rode your bike here?" He questioned

"No shit, Sherlock." You snorted.

"Aren't we like thirty miles from South Park?"

"Yeah."

He checked the time on his phone. It was 1:24.

"It only took me like two hours to get here. It's not like I got up at four to get over here, man." You kicked up the kickstand, wheeling the bike around to face the driveway.

"Still seems like a lot of effort just to see a friend on a Saturday." He retorted, walking over to where you stood with your bike.

"For you, Marsh? Anything." You joked before noticing that he wasn't grabbing his own bike. "What, you just gonna walk?"

"Yeah. I don't feel up to riding my bike. I'll keep up with you, don't worry." He waved the question off. You narrowed your eyes in suspicion, turning to him and raising a hand to turn his face towards yours. You moved within an inch of his face and took a whiff. Bingo.

"JD?" You sighed. You had long since come up with a system of initials and code words to use when addressing his little... alcohol problem. These two letters were ones you found yourself saying quite frequently- _Jack Daniels_.

"Yeah," he muttered, scratching his cheek and willing away the blush that your proximity inspired. Or maybe it was from being caught tipsy, how the hell would he know?

"You really need a drink just hang out with me?" You asked, keeping your tone light when it would otherwise sound disappointed.

"I need a drink to get out of bed every morning, dude." He matched your tone to make his statement sound less depressing than it actually was. It didn't work.

You both started down the path in silence. You kept your peddling slow to match his gait and he walked alongside you, footing unsure and plagued with the occasional stumble.

"How far you wanna go?" You asked, more interested in breaking the silence than getting an actual answer.

"Dunno," he shrugged. "However far you feel like going."

You quirked your lips to the side for a second. "Think you could make it to that strip a few miles out?"

"Maybe." He shrugged again. "What do you want to go all the way out there for?"

"They have a little hole in the wall restaurant there that we could go to, if you want to. If not, it's just something to do." You replied.

"Fair enough."

And once again, silence. Ever so slowly, the two of you made your way through fields of hemp that stretched far into the distance. Once you finally crested the hill that marked the end of the Marshes' property, Stan huffed out a loud breath.

"I've been working on a new song for Crimson Dawn." He offered, trying to make some conversation.

"Oh, really? What does it sound like?" You probed, hoping to get him talking for longer than two seconds.

"Kinda like..." He trailed off, before taking a deep breath.

" **RAAAAAAAAAAH!** "

You jumped out of your skin and fought to regain balance on your bike. "Jesus fucking Christ, dude!" You shouted, laughing and punching him in the shoulder. "You scared the piss out of me!"

"It's a death metal band, what did you expect?" He chuckled, watching you settle back into a steady rhythm of pedaling.

"I mean, fair, but you're a dick." You said, smiling at him.

"Want me to finish what I have so far?" He offered mischievously.

"Nah, I'd like to keep my eardrums for the time being. I'll hear it when you play it for real." You retorted with a snort.

"That won't be anytime soon. Butters got grounded again, and Kenny broke a couple strings on his bass and can't afford to replace them yet."

"Of course Butters got grounded. And what, was Kenny playing slap bass with a fucking hammer or something?" You chuckled.

"Sounds like something he would do." He laughed back.

The two of you continued this way as the minutes peeled away, giggling and talking about the goings on of all your friends. Cartman got detention for using a Buddha box after they were banned, Scott Malkinson was making good progress with the new girl, you traded such tales with Stan for miles. You sniggered when he tripped, and he chortled when your bike hit a curb and unseated you. Soon enough, the hour was up, and you could see the strip mall barely 100 feet in front of you.

"Last one there has to pay," you rushed out, speeding off before you even finished your sentence.

"Hey! That's bullshit, (Y/N)!" Stan yelled, hurrying after you as best as he could while slightly inebriated.

Needless to say, you got to the joint first, and you had already propped the bike against the side of the building when Stan reached you. He panted out a laugh and smacked you on the shoulder.

"Douchebag." He smiled down at you.

"Asshole." You smiled back at him.

"Joke's on you, I didn't grab my wallet when I left the house." He replied, walking over to the door and holding it open for you. You merely scoffed at him and walked in, taking a wad of cash out of your back pocket.

"You owe me, then."

"Sure." He waved you off.

You sat down on one side of a two-seater booth and snatched up the menu. Stan followed suit, plopping his ass down right next to you instead of on the other side of the booth.

You looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "There are two seats."

"And?" He quipped.

You didn't even bother with a response, instead rolling your eyes and holding the menu so that he could read it too. You weren't really up to eating any actual meals, seeing as you had just biked for an hour in the heat, so when you finally flagged down a waiter (who made sure to give you both a weird look for being squished together on a seat meant for one person), all you ordered was a milkshake.

When the waiter turned to Stan, he shook his head. "I'm good, we can share. Right, (Y/N)?"

You gave him a half-hearted glare, asking him _"When the hell did we decide on that?"_ with your eyes. He just smiled at you, so you sighed out a yes and handed your menu over to the waiter.

"You'd better have your own straw." You stated flatly, giving him half of an empty threat. He more or less ignored you, instead looking out the window situated on your other side. You shifted a little, desperate for a millimeter of extra space, but quickly gave up on personal space and resigned to laying your head on Stan's shoulder. He wordlessly plopped his head on top of yours, and you stayed like that for minutes unknown until the server was back with your drink.

"Of fucking course." You huffed. There was only one straw. And Stan, being the asshole that he is, took the first sip.

"If you're gonna get a disease from me, might as well be now." He smirked at you.

"First lice from your hat, now this." You sighed, grabbing the glass and sucking for a good ten seconds.

"Hey, everyone in class had lice. It was only a matter of time." Stan defended weakly.

"Doesn't mean your hat wasn't a breeding ground for the damned things. Haven't worn that crusty hat since." That was clearly the wrong response, because in an instant he had taken his hat off and was trying to plop it onto your head. You swatted it off, letting it fall onto his lap.

"Not today, Satan." You chuckled. Stan shook his head at you and took another swig of the milkshake. You went to do the same, but paused for a second. You clenched your teeth and turned to Stan instead.

"Better counteract your nasty backwash first." You suggested.

"How-" It was hard for him to finish his question around your kiss.

It lasted two seconds at most, and before Stan could process it, you were taking another sip of the milkshake.

You know what? He wasn't gonna question it. You both could put a label on it later.

For now, he dropped his head back on top of yours, and watched the sun clothe itself with a cloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another dialogue-heavy fic. I like it better for this one though.
> 
> A lot of fan fiction writers don't understand how teenagers talk and act, or at the very least they don't write like it. Don't get me wrong, I like a good cliche, but teenagers usually swear a lot and speak in slang, contractions, or plain speech. No soliloquys here, lol. They don't make sweeping gestures or pick people up bridal-style for no reason. Honestly, if you're on the ground, they're more likely to laugh and tell you to get your ass up.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated!


	4. Blunt: Kenny McCormick/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't based on anything in particular either.

The first time Kenny saw you was behind the school, where all the other stoners and junkies went between classes to get their fix. He didn't know you well back then, but he was still surprised to see you there because this didn’t look like a haunt you’d like to be in. One look at you confirmed that- you were hunched over, sitting on a milk crate and looking liable to melt into your sweater. Another look at you told him why you were here- you had a small joint in your hand, which you took a puff of while he was staring. You didn’t choke on it, so it probably wasn’t your first, which just added to his surprise. He would’ve gone over and talked to you, but everything about you screamed “Please leave me alone,” and he wasn’t one to ignore body language. Instead, he flopped down beside another stoner and pulled out his own fix, lighting up and taking a deep breath.

This wasn’t the last time that he would see you out there. He caught you out there at least once a week, curled up and smoking the same homemade cigarette, sometimes small and sometimes large. It took him about a month to find you at a time when you didn’t look so closed-off and intimidated, and he reasoned that it was as good a time as any to get your name. He knew basically everyone who came out here, mostly because they were suppliers or dealers or knew someone else who could score something at a fair price, and you were the only person yet unknown to him. That particular day, you hadn’t quite lit up yet, instead holding the cold joint in the palm of your hand.

“Need a light?” Kenny offered, settling himself on a box next to you and flicking a Bic out of his pocket. You shook your head, pulling your own out of the pocket of your sweatshirt. It was blue, like his.

“Twinsies.” He smiled, and you finally looked up at him. When you saw the lighter he was twiddling with, you cracked a small smile. He smiled wider, glad that he was able to crack your shell with just one word. He didn’t want to push it, though, so he just did what everyone else did out here: lit his stick and started smoking. A minute or two later, you did the same, and you passed the rest of your lunch period in silence.

A few days later, he found you out there in the exact same spot, alone and already smoking. He took a seat on the same box and started playing with his lighter. He saw you give him a glance out of the corner of his eye, and watched as you took another hit and turned to face him.

“What’s your name?” You ventured quietly.

“Kenny.” He grinned. “Yours?”

“(Y/N).” You replied. Kenny thought that you would leave it there, but to his shock, you continued.

“Do,” you cleared your throat. “Do you not have smokes today?”

“No, I do.” He said, producing a joint from his pocket.

You nodded, sucking on your own before puffing it back out. He finally lit his, and you two spent the time much the same way as you had a few days ago, in silence.

Next Tuesday, you were back, and your eyes caught his when he walked out the door. You offered a quirk of the lips when he sat down next to you. He jammed a hand into his parka pocket, scrunching his eyebrows together and trying the other pocket. He patted the pockets of the jeans before groaning in realization, turning to you with a cheeky smile.

“Got a light?” He asked.

You smiled in amusement, tossing him your Bic before taking another drag of your cig. He nodded gratefully, lighting his and dropping your lighter back into your lap. You put it back in your pocket and took a second to stare at the pavement before quizzing him like you did last week.

“What are you smoking?”

“Weed. Not sure what kind, it’s whatever my buddy scored me. He has a weed farm.” Kenny explained.

“Oh. Cool.” You replied, at a loss for words.

“What about you?” Kenny probed, looking to keep the conversation going.

“Oh, um, I got weed too. It’s called Viking Nectar, I think. My, uh, my doctor prescribed it to me.” You said, voice becoming more unsure as you went on.

Kenny chuckled. “Doctor, or ‘doctor’?” He asked, putting emphasis on the latter.

“My actual doctor.” You clarified.

If you wanted him to know why, Kenny reasoned, you probably would have said so. So he didn’t ask further, just enjoying the familiar silence between the two of you until it was time to head back inside.

Another two days and he learned that you were in a bunch of AP and “smart kid” classes. Another week and he learned that you weren’t in any of the cliques that everyone knew of. Another month and he knew your general preferences. Of course, he encouraged this kind of sharing with information of his own, so you knew just as much about him as he did about you. It was nice, he thought, to get to know someone new. After years of the same routines with the same people, just hearing a different pattern of dialogue was surprisingly refreshing. The infrequency of your meetings just made it more interesting, giving interacting with you an almost game-like quality. Would you be there tomorrow? Two days from now? Would it be at lunch, or after fifth period?

It was the middle of next month when there was a break in your not-schedule. It was after first period that Kenny found you sitting on the same milk crate, which was quite early for you. He had never caught you outside any earlier than the break between third and fourth period. You had the same blunt as always, but it wasn’t lit yet. It was sitting harmlessly in your palm, and you were eyeing it with an unreadable expression.

“Hey, what’s up?” He asked, approaching you with the ease that he always felt in your presence. Might’ve been the weed, but he always felt a little more loose around you.

“Hey.” You responded tamely, not taking your eyes off the cigarette.

“Why aren’t you smoking it? Did it call your mom a bitch?” He jeered, elbowing your side gently to try and get your attention on something else.

You scoffed, elbowing him back. “I just don’t know if I want to smoke it.” You answered.

“Why not?” He returned, leaning back casually.

You hesitated a moment, curling your fingers around the joint for a few seconds. Kenny watched your eyebrows furrow a little in contemplation, probably wondering if you should open up to him, before you eased up and sighed.

“I don’t know if it’s doing anything for me. I was prescribed this for anxiety, but it doesn’t make me feel any less anxious. It just makes me feel more tired. Honestly, it might be making it worse.”

Ah, there it was. He wouldn’t lie, he had been curious about this for a little while, but he thought it’d be best for you to tell him why you were smoking ganja on your own. Your explanation made a lot of sense, and it wasn’t too far off from what he already theorized it was. But he could think about that later; for now, you needed someone to talk to.

“It’s possible.” He shrugged, leaning forward to take a better look at the blunt. There was nothing strange about it, but soon enough the gears were turning in his head and he was shifting to look at you.

“Think I could smoke it?” He asked.

“What? Why?” You shot him a quizzical look.

“Well, if I try it out, I could tell you what’s wrong with it or whatever. I’ve smoked a lot of weed, I’d know.” He explained. He was already pretty relaxed as it was, so if your doobie happened to be laced with something, it wouldn’t do much to harsh his buzz.

You paused, but Kenny could tell that you didn’t exactly debate it for long. “Sure.” You said, dropping it into his hand and leaning forward to rest your arms on your knees, watching him light it up and take a deep drag. Neither of you spoke while he took a couple more deep puffs, giving himself a few minutes to get sufficiently high.

“Ugh, yeah, I could see why this isn’t doing shit for your anxiety. This weed’s got too much THC in it.” He finally spoke, staring at the offending cig with a weird sort of half grimace.

“How do you know?” You questioned him quietly, watching his reactions closely.

“I can feel my heart rate speeding up, which is exactly the opposite of what you want to happen if you’re trying to treat anxiety. Plus, my mouth feels a little dry.” He said, offering you the last half of the blunt. You held up a hand and shook your head, so he put it out in the snow at his feet. Instead of leaving it there, he pocketed it.

“No use in wasting it. Just because it isn’t good for your anxiety doesn’t mean it isn’t good weed.” He shrugged with a smile.

You nodded absently, sighing out of your nose, when he suddenly snapped his fingers.

“I got an idea.” He announced. “So, you don’t like this weed, right?”

“Uh, yeah?” You half-stated, half-asked.

“How about we trade? I take this shit because it’ll get me higher, and in return I bring you blunts with more CBD, which will actually calm you down without all the side effects.” He proposed, lazy smile still plastered onto his face.

“You’d do that?” You were a little staggered by his generosity, given that you two had barely been talking for two months.

“Sure,” he replied coolly. “Anything for a friend.”

Something about the way he said that made you smile widely. Maybe the fact that he was so nonchalant about calling you a friend, or the fact that he was high as balls right now.

“Thanks, man.” You responded.

“Don’t mention it.” He nodded towards you, moving to lean back. “You need your kush now, or can you wait until after school?”

You glanced to the side as you thought. “I think I can go a day without it.” You said, scratching your arm a little bit. It’s not like the stuff you were smoking had actually made a difference, and just being around Kenny right now was making you feel pretty mellow. He just had that kind of effect. If it lasted you the day, you would be fine without anything to smoke.

“Cool. I’ll get it to you after school then. You can stop by my house for it?” He offered.

“I don’t know where you live.” You answered.

“I’ll text you my address.” He waved your statement off.

“I don’t have your number, either.” You chuckled.

“Then I’ll give you that, too. Toss me your phone,” He said, catching the mobile device once you unlocked it and chucked it over to him.

You checked the contact info, giving an amused snort at the contact name- “Kenny Jane”- before texting him a quick “s’up” so he’d have your number and pocketing it.

Kenny stood up, offering a hand to you. “I saw the time, and we should probably head in.”

“Yeah, thanks.” You said, putting your hand in his and letting him hoist you up. When you padded back through the halls, you went your separate ways, not saying a word. A silent agreement hung in the air, sealed by the parting of your hands- you’d see him later.

You made good on your end hours later when you knocked on his door, meeting his grin with a smile of your own. He grabbed your hand and led you through the dingy house, bringing you to a room down the hall plastered in posters of tits and trucks.

“Nice, dude.” You snorted, looking around at the décor. Kenny noticed that you were picking at the sleeves of your sweater and hunching over a little bit, clearly a tad overwhelmed at being thrust into a new space, and he was quick to snatch a bag of marijuana from his bedside table.

“Here you go,” He said, tossing you the baggie. You fumbled when you caught it, almost dropping it, and he smiled, completely aware of the fondness that seeped into his expression.

“Want to smoke it right now?” He asked.

“You’re allowed to smoke weed in your room?” You raised an eyebrow, squishing the crushed leaves in your hand a little.

“I wouldn’t say allowed, but no one stops me.” You didn’t have a hard time believing him, given the state of his house.

“Alright, sure.” You shrugged. “You got paper?”

“Yeah, throw me the bag back.” He said. You obliged, and he made quick work of rolling you a joint with a strip of paper that he fished out of his bedside table.

Soon, you were both sitting on his bed, a lit cigarette in your mouth. Kenny could tell by the new slump in your shoulders and the lack of fidgeting that you were already feeling the effects of the weed, even after just a couple minutes of smoking it.

“Better?” He asked, although he didn’t have to.

“Way.” You nodded, a hazy smile on your face.

You took the joint out from between your lips and offered it to him. Never one to turn down a hit, Kenny leaned forward and took it between his teeth, brushing his lips against your fingers in the process.

As he sucked in a breath, you managed to catch him off guard by wrapping an arm around his waist. He looked down at you, a question in his eyes, but you didn’t look up at him, opting instead to lean your head against his chest.

“Thank you.” You mumbled. He could tell that there was more in your words than you let on.

Kenny removed the cig from his mouth and leaned down a little, planting a kiss on the crown of your head.

“Welcome,” he muttered into your hair, breathing into it the scent of smoke and affection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't have a lot to say about this one. I love the idea of Kenny as a flirt and a womanizer (it's basically canon at this point), but even he needs a break sometimes, you know?
> 
> Feedback is very appreciated!


	5. Noise: Craig Tucker/Reader

An angry voice calling his name heralded Craig’s return to consciousness.

“Craig! Are you listening?”

Blearily, he turned to face the figure and flip them off. It was only when they returned the gesture that he realized it was his father, clad in his pajamas and fitted with a scowl.

“Did you hear me? There are noises coming from the basement, and they woke up me and your mother. Go make them stop.” The ginger demanded.

His son glared at him with tired eyes. “Why is it my job to stop them?” He rasped.

“Because it’s probably that damn rat of yours.” His father bit back, already leaving the doorway of Craig’s room. “Do it _now_.” He finished, walking back to the room he shared with his wife just down the hall.

“Stripe is a guinea pig, you asshole,” Craig muttered, not bothering to argue with his father about it for the millionth time. Instead, he threw the covers off and got out of bed, slowly slinking downstairs and further still to the basement stairs.

Now that he was right outside the door, he could sure hear… something. It was very quiet, but it was a repetitive sound, almost like humming. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a noise that a guinea pig would make, unless his guinea pig happened to be some kind of eldritch abomination in secret. Slightly apprehensive, Craig pressed on, opening the basement door and making his way down the basement steps. As soon as he hit a creaky stair, the noise stopped, making him doubly suspicious of whatever was going on down here.

When he finally reached the concrete floor of the basement and flicked on the light, he was greeted with a sight that was somewhat familiar. There you were, sitting against the wall, one leg tucked to your chest and the other outstretched, holding Stripe protectively to your chest while keeping your eyes trained nervously on him. That was the only familiar part about it, though- the fact that you were sitting against his basement wall in the dark at who-knows-when in the morning was a lot less familiar.

“What are you doing here?” Craig asked, voice as monotone as ever.

He watched you relax, pulling Stripe away from your chest and letting the guinea pig return to the floor next to your leg before you spoke. “Playing with Stripe.” You said, not bothering to look back up at him.

He rolled his eyes. He should have expected that.

“Why?” He responded.

Again, you paused for a little while, taking a minute just to pet Stripe and let him sniff your leg before giving Craig a reply. “Just needed to get away,” you mumbled, staring hard at the guinea pig. “Pops was screaming again, throwing shit around. Didn’t want to hear it anymore, so I hopped out of my window as soon as I could and headed someplace with less noise.” You finished, finally looking back at him and offering him a wry smile.

Craig knew very well just how loud your dad could be, among other things. Despite the fact that you were the reason why he was wide awake in his cold basement instead of nestled in warm blankets, he couldn’t blame you.

“How’d you get in?” He sighed, adjusting his stance to something more comfortable and crossing his arms.

You jerked your head to the left. “Basement window. It was unlocked, so I just pushed it in, crawled through, and hopped down onto the washing machine. It was kinda loud, is that why you’re up?”

“Basically.” He replied. “You woke my parents up, and they woke me up and told me to deal with it. Thought it was Stripe.”

“Sorry.” You smiled apologetically, but he waved it off. He watched silently as you continued to play with Stripe, letting the furry little bugger nose up your leg until he made his way back to your hand. You picked him up and lifted him to your face, holding him carefully but comfortably, making a soft “woosh” noise as you did so. If Craig had been less tired and less… well, Craig-ish, he probably would have smiled at that.

He waited for you to put the guinea pig down before talking again.

“Don’t you think it’s past Stripe’s bedtime? It’s…” He trailed off, raising an eyebrow at you.

You whipped out your phone to check the time and grimaced guiltily. “1:17 AM.” You finished, pocketing the device. “Sorry,” you repeated.

Craig shook his head, walking over and scooping Stripe up before putting him back in his cage. He returned to where you were camped only to offer you a hand, which you stared at.

“Well?” He said, punctuating the word with a jostle of his outstretched hand.

You put your hand in his and let him hoist you to your feet. Jesus, your hand was cold compared to his.

“Are we going to your room or something?” You guessed, letting him lead you over to the lightswitch, which he flicked off, then up the darkened stairway.

“What do you think?” He shot back, passing through the basement door and shutting it before continuing his trek, hand still in yours.

You kept silent, padding up the stairs and down the hall with him, stepping into his room. He broke the knot of your hands to return to his door and shut it while you stepped further into the teal sanctuary. Virtually nothing had changed about it over the years, and you were grateful for the sense of stability that it gave you.

“What happens if your parents come in?” You wondered aloud, turning to face him.

“They won’t.” He stated flatly.

“They came in to complain about ‘Stripe’.” You countered.

“Technically it was just my dad.” He returned, rolling his eyes at you but moving to the door to lock it regardless.

“Happy?” He asked, getting a shrug from you in response.

“What happens when we have to get up in the morning? Your parents will see me then.” You picked at your nails unsurely.

“If you feel like scaling the side of the house, be my guest. Otherwise, we’ll cross that bridge in the morning.” He snarked, earning a small smile from you despite your nervousness. Seeing that your nerves weren’t appeased, Craig sighed, grabbing your hand again and leading you over to the bed. He moved his hands to your shoulders, pushing you to sit on it and looking you straight in the eye.

“My parents won’t mind that you spent the night. We can just go downstairs and say that I called you over here to bring Stripe something to calm him down, and you didn’t feel like going all the way back home.” He elaborated, voice monotonous but deliberate. He felt your shoulders loosen after he gave you the proposed excuse.

“Yeah… That’ll work. Thanks,” you said, smiling gratefully up at him.

“Good.” He responded, only to shove you backwards onto the bed. “Now get under the covers.”

“You’re letting me bunk with you?” You raised an eyebrow, but did as told and set to work nestling under his already disturbed sheets.

“Do you really have to ask that?” He retorted.

“Well, I just thought you’d make me sleep on the floor or something for making you get out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn.” You chuckled.

Craig wiggled under the sheets, throwing the comforter over the both of you and making himself comfortable before bothering to respond. “It’s too cold for that,” he murmured, settling into stillness as he got into just the right position. The two of you were laying on your sides to compensate for the smallness of his twin bed, but that didn’t make the bed itself any less cozy.

“Now go to sleep.” He commanded, already anticipating your antsiness. He wasn’t disappointed, as you soon started to wriggle around.

“That’s not gonna work,” you bit back, shifting your position for the fifth time in the last thirty seconds. Craig sighed. Of _course_.

Getting sick of the squirming very quickly, Craig did the only thing that he knew would work- he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest.

“Sleep,” he mumbled, burying his face in your hair.

“I… Fine.” You grumbled, moving just a tad so that your face rested in the crook of his neck.

After a minute or so of silence, he felt your lips move against his throat. “Goodnight, Craig.” You whispered.

He held you a little tighter in response. “... Goodnight, (Y/N).”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Makes you wonder how many kids in broken homes would do the same if they had the chance.
> 
> Myself included.


	6. Alley: Tweek Tweak/Reader

You had barely dragged the guy into the alley before he started swinging.

“Let the fuck go of me!” He demanded, landing a punch to your stomach. You fought the urge to curl into yourself and instead threw a fist at his chest, hitting him right in the solar plexus. He folded like a napkin, hacking, and you took this opportunity to slam a knee into his lowered face.

“That’s what you get for dining and dashing, you piece of shit,” you growled, turning to walk away only to get kicked in the back. You landed hard on your knees, turning around and rolling to dodge another kick aimed for your head.

“Fuck you.” He snarled, trying to kick you again. You stood up quickly, staggering backwards before charging forward and nailing him in the jaw. You could hear his teeth clack into each other and he groaned in pain, tripping away from you.

“Fuck _you!_ ” You replied, glaring him down. The man hesitated, seeming to ask himself whether or not kicking your ass was worth the effort when you bent down and grabbed a half-empty tin can that had fallen from the nearby dumpster, pitching it at him with all the force you could muster. It hit him right between the eyes with a painful clunk, spilling whatever the hell was inside it down his face. That was enough to convince him that you were too much of a hassle, as he was quick to turn and stumble out of the alley and down the street.

You huffed out a laugh at the pathetic display, turning to lean against the building to your right. You brushed a hand through your hair and stared up at the sky, getting your breath back from the short but strenuous experience when a door to your left suddenly opened, revealing-

“Tweek.” You smiled at him, waving a scraped hand. With one look at you, he could instantly tell what had happened, and was quick to grab your arm and yank you through the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing?!” He exclaimed, pulling you into the familiar back room of Tweek Bros. Coffee.

“What does it look like?” You shot back casually, allowing him to yank you over to the pseudo-sitting area that the two of you had put together. It wasn’t much- some wooden boxes with old pillows taped to them to serve as chairs, a couple blankets, another box between the two chairs that functioned as a coffee table- but it was a well-loved and well-used arrangement nonetheless.

“It looks like you were fighting again!” He said, struggling to control his volume thanks to the added stress that such an idea gave him. He made his way over to the cabinets against the far wall, digging around for the supplies he kept for occasions like this. Hearing no response from you, he looked over his shoulder just to see you shrug unapologetically.

“This is serious!” He yelled, grunting as his neck twitched particularly hard. Finally, he found some disinfectant and a few band-aids, which he was quick to bring over to where you sat.

“You can’t keep fighting in front of the store anymore. My parents are starting to get really pissed off! It’s bad for business!” He lectured, blinking rapidly. You looked at him passively.

“I know, so I didn’t fight in front of the store. I pulled the guy into the alley.” You said nonchalantly, leaning back in anticipation of his next outburst. He didn’t let you down.

“Don’t be a smartass!” He cried, kneeling in front of you and looking you over for injuries. “You can’t fight by the store! If my mom and dad get upset enough, they won’t let me have you around anymore! What am I gonna do if you’re banned from here, huh? I’m here all the time, and this is the only place outside of school that we can really see each other! If we stop seeing each other enough then our relationship is gonna fall apart!” By the end of his rant, he wasn’t even scanning for wounds anymore- just staring at you in a complete panic. His twitching had gotten progressively worse, and he was clenching his fist in his shirt in a desperate attempt at finding some stability.

You held back the urge to sigh, knowing that it would only freak him out more, and sank down to your knees in front of him. You set your hands in your lap, palms up, offering him a lifeline to grab onto but not forcing his hands from their current perches. Dozens of similar freakouts had taught you that “making” him do anything did nothing for his rampant anxiety.

“I’m sorry, Tweek.” You said, slowly and deliberately.

He grunted past his clenched teeth. “No, you’re not!” He almost shrieked, getting up and moving away from you to pace. “You always do this! You always get in fights, when you know that it scares me! You’re going to get killed! You’re going to piss off someone with a gun, or a knife, or, or… _I don’t know!_ But you’re going to end up dead!”

“Tweek, who the hell is going to bring a weapon to a coffee shop?” You asked, standing up and inching closer to him.

“And you don’t care!” He went on. You furrowed your eyebrows a bit, annoyance creeping into your concern for him as he appeared to be ignoring you. “I’ve told you over and over again to stop fighting people and you keep doing it! You get bruised and bloody and you come back here like it’s all okay when it’s not okay! And then when I get worried you just- brush it off, like it’s something that can’t be helped when you really have no good reason to go off and get your ass kicked!”

“I fight people who fuck you over. Did you even notice that that guy picked up his coffee without picking up on the tab?” You remarked, trying your best to keep yourself from sounding inflammatory.

He let out a short shriek, head turning in a harsh twitch. “You know you’re making me upset, you know you’re making my parents angry, you know you’re ruining the image of the shop, and you don’t give a shit!” He raved, gesticulating wildly to nothing. You grit your teeth, trying to rein in your temper as he continued to ignore you. _Use “I” statements,_ you reminded yourself, calling back to what you’d been taught to do to manage the effects of your anger.

“I think you’re overreacting-”

“(Y/N), stop trying to pick apart what I’m saying! _You’re acting just like Craig!_ ” Tweek screamed, finally stopping his march and turning to look at you.

Both of you froze. Your stare became both hard and blank, pinning Tweek to the spot with its intensity. You _hated_ being compared to his ex-boyfriend. You knew that there was something special between Tweek and Craig that you could never replicate, something that Craig had that you didn’t, and it infuriated you to no end. The knowledge that you would never be as important as Tweek’s ex would constantly chip at your self-esteem, making you twice as defensive whenever his name would pop up, which was frequently thanks to the legacy that the couple and their historic breakup left behind. It wasn’t just other people mentioning him, either- Tweek had a habit of comparing you to him, even during the good times. You might be cuddling, and he’d drop the name of his ex to describe a similarly enjoyable moment between them. Other times, like now, you could be fighting and he’d line your faults up to Craig’s, or- worse yet- compare your defects to Craig’s merits. Thankfully, he hadn’t done the latter this time, but that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t still a major misstep on his part, and you both knew it.

You wanted to yell. You wanted to throw his words right back into his face, to ask him why he hadn’t just stayed with Craig if he was going to compare your every move to his ex. You wanted to tell him that you weren’t Craig no matter how much he wished you were. Never mind the fact that you also wanted to cry; no, you wanted to get _angry_.

Tweek watched you with wide eyes, hardly daring to blink as he waited for your next move.

You took a deep breath in, sighing heavily out of your nose. Desperate for some kind of stimulus to ground yourself, you used one hand to pick at the scraps of dead skin hanging off the palm of the other.

_Pick your battles, pick your battles, pick your battles._

Sensing that Tweek was about to speak, you beat him to the punch.

“I guess this conversation was a long time coming, huh?” You asked, voice a mix of resigned and painfully bitter. Tweek winced when he heard it.

“You just, don’t listen to me. You don’t take my concerns seriously.” He replied. His twitching started back up again, and he fiddled with his fingers, his face the very definition of mousy.

“I try.” You offered.

“Not hard enough.” He returned instantly, but quickly amended his tone with a grunt. “You hear me, but you act like what you do can’t be helped. Like you _have_ to fight, but you don’t.”

“You don’t get it.” You responded, turning away from him and continuing your picking.

“Yes, I do. You’re so… angry. All the time.” He said, blinking hard. Tension bubbled behind the walls and under the floor, right beneath your skin, setting him on edge and making his tics worse.

You said nothing, working at a stubborn strip of flesh. Feeling slightly encouraged, Tweek took a step towards you.

“I know you’re really,” he cut himself off with a short shriek, “angry, and I know you have a hard time talking about it.”

You just barely bit back a “Wonder why?”, knowing that your sarcasm wouldn’t help either of you.

“I don’t understand why you can’t open up to me.” He spoke softly, taking a few more steps toward you only to stop short when you whipped around to face him.

“Oh, really?” You asked, using every ounce of restraint you had to keep yourself from snarling. “You can’t think of one reason why I wouldn’t talk to you about my feelings? It’s not like you have such terrible reactions to my smallest displays of emotion, like fighting, that I feel like getting deeper into it would completely freak you out! It’s not like I feel like I have to be the strong one and shut my mouth because you have enough problems to deal with! It’s not like, no matter what fucking happens, you will _always_ compare me to Craig, and I can’t compete with him because I’m not your first love, I’m not the strong and silent type, and I’m not _fucking special enough!_ ” You exploded, digging your nails into the scraped skin and pulling off chunk after chunk. Looking Tweek in the eye only made you angrier- he was staring at you, shell-shocked and looking hesitant to be within five feet of you.

“God _damn it._ ” You hissed into the silence, squeezing your eyes closed. You should have just kept your fucking mouth shut. Now he’s going to break up with you, because he knows you’re all fucked up and upset all the time and insecure about how inferior you are to Craig, and he doesn’t need that shit in his life. Great fucking job.

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the sensation of something touching your hand. You kept your eyes clenched shut, waiting for Tweek to offer you a jittery breakup speech as he flipped your hand over to look at your palm.

“You’re bleeding.” His whole body twitched, shaking your hand with it. You opened your eyes as he led you back to your seat, letting you sit down before picking up the forgotten bottle of hydrogen peroxide and popping open the cap. Not one to let necessary words go unsaid, you spoke up hesitantly.

“We still have to talk.”

“I know,” Tweek muttered, a twitch rippling up his spine. “But we can take care of this first.”

“I’d rather get the conversation over wi-”

“(Y/N), _please_.” He interrupted, looking up at you pleadingly. “Let me take care of you. For _once_.”

You stared into his eyes, your resolve clashing with his own iron will. Yours broke first.

“Alright,” you acquiesced quietly. Apologizing in advance for the burn, he poured the peroxide onto your hand, holding it still as you jerked from the pain. You must have gotten yourself deep, because it _really_ hurt. Still, you bit your lip, doing your best not to make a peep in spite of the sting.

“(Y/N),” He repeated, giving you an even more begging look. His gaze was clear and loving, uninterrupted by twitches now that he was focused and not panicking nearly as much, and it told you everything he wanted to say. 

_”Let yourself be vulnerable. Let yourself show pain. Let go.”_

That look, combined with the bubbling agony currently sizzling in the palm of your hand, was enough to bring tears to your eyes.

Tweek gave you a bittersweet smile. It was the first time you had ever let him see you cry.

“I can be the strong one when you need it,” he reassured, running his other hand up your arm. Miraculously, he didn’t twitch once.

You leaned forward, pressing your face into his shoulder and pulling your burning hand out of his only to wrap your arms around him, sinking to the ground in front of him. He returned the gesture, pulling you into a hug and feeling your cold tears start to drip down his neck. He fought the urge to shiver.

“(Y/N)?” Tweek started softly.

“Mmhm?” You sniffled.

“I still love you. I hope you know that.” He had a feeling that, beneath your tough exterior, a small, broken part of you needed to hear that. His thoughts were confirmed when you let out a choked sob and squeezed him tighter.

You didn’t respond, but he didn’t need you to.

Your tears wrote your love on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does my fic have to be the most recently updated one for two days in a row? I mean, it's good for exposure but I really want to read your stories. It gets boring, not having anything new to read but my own garbage.
> 
> Anyway, this one was a little long, but only because it needed to be. I didn't want to rush it.
> 
> If you want more South Park, go read these fics. I don't have any personal ties to either author, but these stories are still updated (I hate reading stories that have been discontinued) and they're magnificent. They're what I only wish I could write:
> 
> Immortal Entanglement by Sarah_Belles90: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23452420/chapters/56217553
> 
> The Echos of Our Hearts by JacketBones: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134543/chapters/55360930
> 
> (Speaking of these, I've been thinking of writing a series of my own, but I'm not sure about the commitment. Thoughts?)


	7. Swing: Clyde Donovan/Reader

“Yo, Donovan!”

The boy looked up from his lap, staring at the intruder- you.

“Missed you at school today, man.” You remarked, walking over to where he sat on the swings.

“My dad called me in,” he answered your unspoken question with half the truth.

“Why? You don’t look sick.” You bent over at the waist, trying to get a good look at his face for a flush, sweat, something that would normally indicate illness. He didn’t look back up to you, but his expression steeled.

“Yesterday was Mother’s Day.” He mumbled. It didn’t take more than a second for that to compute.

“Oh.” You were at a loss for words. Nothing you could tell him hadn’t already been said, so instead of empty, repetitive sentiments, you offered him a solution:

“Wanna go get drunk?” Well, somewhat of a solution at least.

“... Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He replied, getting off the swing. He stretched a bit, stumbling on numb legs, but was quick to start walking in the direction of your house. You walked beside him.

The silence lasted a couple of minutes before Clyde finally spat out what was on his mind.

“How do you deal with it?” He asked quietly.

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” You snapped back into focus. “I dunno. Like, yeah, my mom’s not dead, but she might as well be at this point.” You shrugged.

He shot you a look of abject horror. “How can you say that? That’s awful!”

“No, no, no, no, no.” You cut in. “You took that the wrong way. I don’t want my mom dead, I’m just saying that if she was dead, it would make no difference.”

“I don’t get that,” He responded, still looking at you uneasily.

“Let me ask you a question.” You said, crossing your arms. “Have you ever met my mom?”

He thought for a second. “No.”

“Have you ever seen her around?”

He chewed his cheek. “No.”

“Have you ever seen her call me or text me?”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Do you get it now?” You asked flatly.

“... No.” He answered, not even bothering to look sheepish.

You sighed, exasperated. “Look, she’s not… around, anymore. My parents split, she didn’t feel like showing up for the custody battle, so my dad got me and my mom just fucked off to wherever.”

“What about your dad?” Clyde wondered.

“What about my dad? What about _your_ dad?” You bit back.

That shut him up. You made a good point.

“It’s not like he bothers to stick around either. He pays the bills, leaves food in the house, and goes to do whatever it is he does. When’s the last time you saw him, huh?” You went on.

“I don’t know,” Clyde mumbled.

“Yeah.” You said. “Can’t blame him though. He didn’t expect to get stuck with me. He never wanted me, especially not now that his wife is fucking other dudes and getting high. That might actually be what he’s doing when he’s away from home, how the fuck would I know?” You chuckled.

“Anyway,” you went on before Clyde could offer you a useless token of sympathy, “back to the mom thing, I wish our moms could trade places. Your mom was always pretty cool. Plus, finally knowing where the hell my mom is would be an added bonus.”

You had effectively left Clyde speechless, but you didn’t mind the silence. What would he even say? What could he say?

His lips stayed closed for the rest of the walk, all the way through your front door and into your kitchen. Hoping to end the awkwardness, you reached into your fridge and grabbed a can of beer, tossing it over your shoulder at him. You didn’t bother looking, but you could tell by the noise of his sudden stomps and the dings of the can hitting his hands that he had just barely caught it.

“Nice,” you laughed, grabbing a beer of your own and leaning against the counter.

“Thanks.” He shot back, only half-sarcastically. He popped the tab and stared blankly into the black void of liquid.

You elbowed him gently. “Are you gonna drink it, or are you gonna make eyes at it until it fucks you?” You smirked.

“Fuck you.” He replied, rolling his eyes but still hesitating to take a sip.

“Seriously, what’s the matter?” You inquired, hints of concern creeping into your usually laid-back countenance. It wasn’t like Clyde to wait once a beer was cracked open, especially not a good beer. And this wasn’t shitty beer- it was Budweiser, and _every_ teen in the town drank Budweiser.

He tapped his fingers against the can, clearly thinking over his words, before looking over at you.

“Does it ever get easier?” He asked, voice broken and small.

You blinked. That was _not_ a question that you were ready to answer. Hell, you had asked yourself that a million times, not that you ever got an answer out of it. But you couldn’t tell him that, not when he was looking at you so… vulnerably. The lost look in his eyes, the uncertain twist of his mouth, everything about him called back to the ten year old whose paralyzed form you found on the sidewalk in the middle of the night. You could almost see the memories starting to roll across his eyes like a nightmarish film reel, and that’s when you decided to break the silence.

“I don’t think so.” Your voice came out a lot more sure than you actually were. “But, I think _we_ just get stronger. You know, to cope.” You offered him half a smile, and to your surprise, he attempted to give one back. It sucked, but at least he tried.

“Now that all that philosophical bullshit is out of the way,” you ceremoniously cracked open your own beer, “drink up, buddy!”

You grinned, throwing an arm around his shoulder and jostling him. “Fuck Mother’s Day!” You cheered, raising your can.

“Fuck Mother’s Day.” He echoed. He leaned into your embrace and took a good, long swig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this one that much, but I felt like it was appropriate to write given Clyde's motherless-ness.


	8. Test: Token Black/Reader

_”You need to cheat? I know just the kid to talk to…”_

And that’s how Token Black ended up outside the girls’ bathroom in the English hallway. He had been waiting for fifteen minutes and was about to cut his losses and leave when suddenly a shape whisked past him, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt and yanking him through the door. He was so caught off guard that he couldn’t react, but as soon as he got his bearings, he was jerking out of their grip and taking a few steps back.

“What the hell was that?” He demanded. Instead of answering his question, you grinned, holding a hand out for him to shake.

“(Y/N) (L/N), at your service!” You greeted cheerily, shoving your proffered hand in your sweatshirt pocket when he didn’t take it. Token eyed you suspiciously, but seeing as he had nothing to lose, he decided to adhere to the bare minimum of politeness and return your introduction.

“I’m-”

“Token Black, I know.” You waved off his unspoken intro. “I’d be an idiot not to know you. You’re one of the smartest kids in our grade. What are you here for?”

“Um, I’m here to cheat. Isn’t that obvious?” He asked, not sure whether to be flattered or even more suspicious that you knew so much about him.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Despite your words, you smiled kindly. “I need to know what you’re cheating in. I can’t just pull a test key out of my ass if I don’t know whether it’s for APUSH or chem.”

“Oh, uh, right.” He replied, feeling a bit sheepish. He shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and hauled it over to the sink, not wanting to put it on the bathroom floor (that got an eye roll from you). After a minute of rifling through notebooks and folders, he pulled out a packet littered in equations and held it out to you. You took it and scanned the page.

“Ah, AP Calc. AB or BC?” You inquired.

“BC.” He said. He tried not to sound too prideful about being in the better class, but you saw through the act.

“Of course.” You snorted. “I took AP Stats myself, but I can definitely snag something for this. This is…” You squinted at the jumble of variables, doing so more for theatrics than anything because you already knew what it was. “Differential equations, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Token answered. He was kind of surprised that you knew what they were, because you didn’t look all that intelligent. Then again, you were the school’s resident cheating master, so maybe it was a front you put up?

“Alright, when’s the test?” You asked, whipping out your phone to take note of what you’d need to pick up.

“Tomorrow.” He admitted, shrinking a little when your eyes shot up from the screen of your phone to look at him incredulously.

“So, is this like a last ditch effort to keep your grade up because you didn’t study, or what?” You questioned.

“No, nothing like that. I just want some… Insurance.” He replied, satisfied with his choice of words. Much to his surprise, you laughed.

“Spare me the platitudes,” you chuckled out. “You’re not the first ‘smart kid’ to say that.” You used air quotes to make your point. All it did was irritate Token further.

“I’m serious. I know the material.” He insisted, frowning.

“Okay, then why are you here?” You replied, crossing your arms.

“I, I just want to make sure I get a good grade!” He answered hotly.

“Uh huh.” You said, laying the sarcasm on thick. “Look, I know you can afford my services, but if you were as smart as you think you are, you wouldn’t be here.”

You had effectively and thoroughly pissed Token off at this point. You could tell by the set of his jaw, the square of his shoulders, and the posture suggesting that there was a stick up his ass.

“You know, it’s not a good business practice to insult your customers.” He bit back, just one furrow of the brows away from straight-up glaring at you.

You didn’t bother to respond, instead shooting him a smile. An enigmatic, infuriating smile. That was the last straw for him- he snatched his packet back out of your hands, scooped up his backpack, jammed his arms through the straps, and stormed out of the bathroom.

Well, his exit would have been a lot stormier if the loud slap of books hitting the ground didn’t echo behind him. He turned around to see half the contents of his backpack on the dirty bathroom floor, and your amused smirk.

“Your backpack’s unzipped.” You said, fighting off a grin. He just glared at you, not bothering to respond when clearly, he noticed. He turned to pick up the fallen materials and continued his dramatic departure, throwing a hand over his shoulder to fumble with the zipper.

He didn’t manage to zip up his backpack until he had already left the school, and by then there was practically no point since his car was a three minute walk away in the school parking lot. Token cursed to himself, throwing his bag and books in the back seat and starting the engine, driving off at a perfectly acceptable speed despite his anger.

God, that was embarrassing. No one had ever talked to him like that (' _Barring maybe Eric Cartman,_ ' Token thought irritatedly), and being put down in the bathroom by someone he barely knew was not on his bucket list. Why should someone else’s opinion matter anyway? What did _you_ know? You said it yourself, he is one of the smartest kids in your grade! And you’re still going to call him dumb, say that he doesn’t know the material?

He smiled to himself, narrowing his eyes competitively. He’d prove you wrong. He told himself that, over and over, as he parked his car in his driveway, greeted his parents, and dumped his bag on his bed, fishing out all the worksheets from the last unit of calculus. 

_I’ll prove you wrong._

The next morning, as his teacher was passing out the tests, he scribbled it on his desk, covering it up with his hand when his teacher walked past. 

_I’ll prove you wrong._

Every letter he wrote, every number, every operator and parenthesis was neatly scratched onto his paper with one thought in mind. 

_I’ll prove you wrong._

And once he placed his finished test on the teacher’s desk, his mind was blaring with triumph. He hadn’t paused on a single question, hadn’t taken more than a minute to understand anything that was asked of him. He got logical answers for every problem, and was confident in everything he wrote down. He put your stupid assumptions in check. 

It wasn’t until his teacher handed his paper back the next time he was in class that he snapped out of the pleased afterglow that completing the test had given him. For a split second, he was consumed by apprehension, starting to entertain the possibility that maybe he hadn’t- 

_98%_. 

Never mind! 

He couldn’t help the grin that split his face in two. A flood of dopamine leaked from his brain and spread through the rest of his body. He didn’t even care about the 2% that he missed, knowing that it couldn’t have been more than a sign error or something inconsequential like that- all that mattered was that he had gotten an A, a high one at that, and that he had proven that he wasn’t stupid after all- 

Wait. Hold up. When did the word “stupid” get in there? You hadn’t said anything about him being stupid. You had told him that he was one of the smartest kids in the grade, even. What was it that you had said, exactly? 

_”If you were as smart as you think you are, you wouldn’t be here.”_

Oh. Oh _shit_. 

He totally got played, didn’t he? The longer he thought about it, the more he realized what you did: You didn’t even insult him, you just made him question yourself. You challenged him, and he played into it like a sucker. The slightest offense to his ego made him puff up and go on the defensive, which is why he had spent all of the night before the test studying and re-studying the material until he knew every type of equation and how to solve it better than he knew the faces of his parents... 

He smiled. That was the point, wasn’t it? Just five minutes after your conversation, and he was swearing to himself that he’d do whatever it took to prove you wrong. But in the end, who was he even trying to prove something to? 

He had to talk to you, he thought, nodding to himself. 

After school, he was waiting outside that same girls’ bathroom in the English hallway, checking his phone for the time when he felt something yank him by the arm. This time, though he was still caught off guard, he let it happen. Once the door had shut behind the two of them, Token looked up to see you standing there, arms crossed. 

“You again?” You asked, not unkindly. 

“Yeah.” He had the grace to look embarrassed, but that didn’t stop him from saying what he came there to say. “You planned all of that, didn’t you?” He accused. 

“What?” You quirked an eyebrow at the bold question. 

“You pissed me off on purpose so I would go study to try and prove you wrong. Which I did, by the way,” he explained, producing his test- which he already had in his hand to prevent more backpack malfunctions. You took the paper from him, examining his work before looking at the red “98%” at the top. 

“Nice.” You replied, handing the paper back to him. 

He stared at you, waiting for a response to his claim, but you just stared back. Something on your face was amused. 

“Well?” He pushed. 

“Well what?” You returned. “You didn’t need to cheat. Good for you.” 

“I’m not going to get anywhere with you, am I?” He groaned. 

All you did was smile. “Perhaps you are as smart as you say you are. But was that ever in question?” You said. Token sighed at your riddles, but smiled back. 

“Would you like to come to my house?” He offered out of the blue. 

“Why?” You inquired, slightly suspicious but not enough so to wipe the smile off your face. 

“Think about it. Someone as pragmatic as you, working with someone as smart as me? We’d make a good team.” He reasoned. You considered his offer for a minute, uncrossing your arms and smirking. 

“Don’t kid yourself, Black.” You spoke, walking towards the door and bumping hips with him as you walked past. “This isn’t just a business partnership, and you know it.” 

' _Damn._ ' He thought, looking into your amicable eyes. They saw a lot more than you let on. 

“Are you coming or not?” You called, holding the bathroom door open for him. He snapped out of it and walked through the doorway, thanking you. 

“Backpack zipped up this time?” Your teasing voice earned you a half-hearted glare from the boy, which you laughed at. 

“Hey, have you ever thought of being a lawyer?” He suggested idly, mostly just trying to get the attention off of himself. 

You grabbed his hand and replied, “Many times.” Thoroughly embarrassed, Token couldn’t find anything else to say. 

“And you know lawyers,” you went on, flashing him a mischievous grin. “They always go where the money is.” 

That caught him off guard. As mysterious as you were, he didn't even know whether or not you were joking. Nevertheless, he couldn’t hold back his laughter, and his hand tightened around yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was kind of hard nailing down a personality for Token, since there's really not much to work with, both in the show and in the fandom. However, I do know that he's opportunistic, as proven in the episodes Christian Rock Hard (se7/ep9) and Raising the Bar (se16/ep9), so I decided that he wouldn't be above cheating.
> 
> I like this one. It captures some of that Gifted Kid energy, wanting to cheat just to make sure your grade is as high as possible.


	9. Breakfast: Kenny McCormick/Reader (Platonic)

“Kevin, I told you to get your ass _up!_ ”

Another Wednesday in the McCormick household. You swept past the room of your younger brother, who had just begun to tiredly curse you out, and knocked on the door of the youngest boy in the house.

"Kenny, are you ready yet?" You called. You got something muffled but affirmative in response. "Can you go help Karen with her hair then? She's in the bathroom." You added, walking away before he could reply. You knew he'd do it, and you had something more important to do- make breakfast. If you could find some, that is.

You rifled through the cabinets, looking for anything edible and non-alcoholic, and you stumbled across an opened box of cherry Pop-Tarts. Upon closer inspection, there were only two packages left. You sighed, but took them out of their silver wrappers and plated them anyway, stuffing the first two into the filthy toaster that sat on the counter. Leaning out of the kitchen doorway, you peered down the hall to make sure that your siblings were getting themselves ready while you "cooked." Kevin's door was closed, meaning he was (hopefully) getting dressed, and you could see a hint of Kenny's orange parka around the corner of the bathroom wall.

The pastries popped out of the toaster, and you moved back into the kitchen to put the next two in there. You snatched two more paper plates from a cabinet, grabbing a knife as well. Once the last of the Pop-Tarts was out, you put one on each plate and used the knife to cut the last into thirds, adding each slice to the individual pastries on each plate. You set the plates on the dinner table and cleaned the knife off quickly, running it under the tap and using the barest amount of soap possible before chucking it back in the drawer. Then you returned to the hallway, where Karen was adjusting her socks.

"Breakfast!" You called. Karen was quick to straighten up and make a beeline for the kitchen, and with the creaks of a couple doors, Kevin and Kenny followed suit. Soon, the three siblings were chowing down, making quick work of the Pop-Tarts while you went to the bathroom to finish your own routine. You combed your hair and brushed your teeth with a dirty toothbrush, hoping that the scent of mint would cancel out the smell of Pop-Tarts. While you were rinsing your mouth, though, Kenny walked into the bathroom.

"Hey, I saved you this," he said, offering you half a Pop-Tart. Your lips quirked up in a crooked smile.

"No thanks. I'm not hungry." You replied, sticking a hand under his hood and ruffling his messy hair. Before he could protest, you left the bathroom, and he was left to sigh and shove the last of it in his mouth.

Walking into the living room, you snatched your backpack off the floor next to the couch, making sure that all your books and folders were still there. You made sure not to bump into the couch while doing so- your father had passed out there last night, and waking him up wouldn't yield happy results. Unfortunately, that also happened to be where you slept, so you had to sleep on Kenny's floor last night since Karen and Kevin already shared a room and there were no more beds in the house. God forbid you sleep on the queen-sized bed your parents owned. Your mother probably took up the entire thing by herself anyway.

Zipping up your bag, you grabbed your denim jacket off the floor nearby- the warmest article of clothing you had aside from the long-sleeved shirt that you were already wearing- and put it on, throwing your bag over your shoulder afterwards. Now completely ready for the day, you returned to the hallway to make sure that your siblings were in a similar state.

Kenny was leaving his room, lugging his backpack with. A couple steps down the hall and a peek into a doorway showed you that Kevin was shoveling papers into his own bag and Karen was pulling her boots on.

"Karen, where's your backpack?" You asked, stepping into the room.

"In the closet." She replied, flexing her toes. The soles were worn out the the point that, if she wanted to, she could probably jam her toes through the bottom of them.

You were quick to open her closet door, looking through her half of the closet for her bag. It wasn't hard to spot- it was pink and covered in stickers- so you snatched it up, turning to Karen and holding it out to her expectantly. You helped her get her arms through the straps and waved Kevin over, leaving the room with your siblings and moving to the living room. All three of them were ready for school, so you were finally able to slip your own beat-up shoes on and leave the house.

You and your three siblings walked down the sidewalk, making the trek towards the three different bus stops you had. You were in high school, Kevin was in middle school, and Kenny and Karen were still in elementary school, so you all had separate buses to get on. You came to the first fork in the route, the part where Kevin left the group to make it to his stop. You trusted him to make the journey alone since he was a teenager.

"Behave." You said, rumpling his hair. He scowled at you half-heartedly, smacking your hand off his head.

"Whatever." He replied, turning to cross the street.

"Hey, I paid for the braces in your mouth, and I can pull them right back out with a pair of pliers." You threatened, only getting a scoff from him in return. He waved a hand to say goodbye, not turning back around.

You rolled your eyes at his thirteen-year-old edginess before continuing to walk the youngest McCormicks to their stop. It wasn't very far, and the yellow sign entered your field of vision just five minutes later. You had to turn around and run a few blocks to make it to your own bus on time, so this was where you decided to split up with your sibs.

Karen reached her arms toward you in a silent plea to be picked up and you obliged, hoisting her up and spinning her around.

"Have a good day at school, Kare-Bear." You smiled, kissing her on the cheek. She returned the gesture.

"You too, (Y/N)!" She exclaimed before squirming out of your arms and running over to the yellow sign.

Kenny stood before you, picking at a loose thread on his brown gloves. You sighed, patting him on the shoulder.

" _Be good._ " You stressed, squeezing his shoulder. He looked up at you, and though his mouth was covered, the squint of his eyes gave away the smirk he wore under his jacket.

"I'm serious," you continued, before remembering something that you meant to talk to him about earlier. "Oh, and you know that Butters kid?"

A muffled "uh huh" came from your little brother.

"I don't want you to pick on him anymore." He gave you an incredulous look and was just about to protest when you beat him to it. "I know, he's a 'pussy,' but I saw him and his parents when I was picking you up the other day, and I think he has enough problems without you and your friends making fun of him and beating him up. I know you can't control what your friends do, but you can control what you do, and I don't want you harassing the poor kid anymore. Okay?" You stared at him until he gave you a begrudging nod, to which you smiled and squeezed his shoulder again.

"If there's anyone you should be beating up, it's Token Black. His family's loaded, so if you picked his pockets while he was down, you'd probably find more than I could make at work in a day." You joked, smiling when you heard your brother laugh.

"I'll see you after school, okay? Take care of Karen." You reminded him, walking backwards to see him nod before spinning around and running back the way you came. You took a left at the nearest intersection, dashing down a few sleet-covered blocks before spotting your bus already pulled up to the stop. Cursing, you sprinted forwards with all of your might, luckily reaching the doors before they closed. You smiled at the bus driver as you got on and plopped into the first empty seat, panting.

Yep, typical Wednesday.

It wasn't until fifth period that it stopped being a typical Wednesday.

"(Y/N) McCormick, please report to the principal's office." Came the staticky voice over the PA system. Once your teacher excused you, you were trudging down the halls to the main office, nerves flaring. Who had business with you in the office? Had they finally caught you stealing sandwiches from the lunch line, like you always did when there was nothing at home to feed your siblings for dinner? Or maybe someone reported you for taking a swig from a friend's flask this morning to dull the pain of your empty stomach? Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

Once you finally got to the office door and opened it, you saw someone waiting in one of the chairs. When they stood up to greet you, you recognized them- Mr. Mackey.

"Hello, (Y/N). Sorry to bother you, m'kay, but there's been some trouble down at the elementary school and we couldn't reach your parents." He explained.

"Oh God," you replied, instantly worried. "Are Kenny and Karen okay?"

"Karen's not a part of this, mkay? This has to do with your brother, Kenny. He's fine, aside from a couple scratches and bruises here and there, mkay." He reassured you, and you allowed yourself to relax a little.

"What happened?" You asked.

"I think it'd be best if we discussed it back at the elementary school, mkay. If you would go get your things, I have a letter signed by PC Principal that will excuse you from school for the rest of the day on official business."

You nodded, thanking him, before rushing back out of the office doors and running to your locker. You quickly jammed all your things inside your bag, stuffing the sandwiches you stole for your siblings in the first pocket so as to keep them from getting crushed, before throwing on your jacket, zipping up your backpack, and hauling it out, kicking your locker shut before running back to the office.

Mr. Mackey was waiting there, and he nodded to the assistant at the front desk before walking to the exit. You followed closely behind him, trailing through the parking lot and to his silver Chrysler. You were a little hesitant about getting into a car alone with a grown man that you didn't know that well, but you got in anyway. You decided to sit in the back to put a little more space between yourself and Mr. Mackey, but your brother was too important to you for you to turn down the ride completely. Plus, it was Mr. Mackey of all people- if anyone was going to feel you up, it wasn't going to be the dorky school counselor.

Thankfully, Mr. Mackey didn't try to make conversation, because you weren't one for small talk. As soon as he stopped the car, you were jumping out of it and running to the doors of the school. You knew exactly where to go, speeding down the twists and turns of the silent halls before entering the main office, saying a polite hello to the lady at the front desk before walking straight to the door marked that read "PRINCIPAL". You knocked, bouncing impatiently on your feet until you heard a clear "Enter."

You opened the door and forced yourself to slow down, walking with a fake air of calmness towards where your brother sat in front of the principal's desk. Kenny turned around and visibly deflated upon seeing you, quickly moving to look away from you.

"Hello, Mx. McCormick. Please, take a seat." PC Principal greeted, arms crossed.

"Hello, PC Principal." You replied, sitting in a chair to the left of Kenny's. "Thank you for excusing me from class. I heard there was some trouble with my brother...?" You trailed off.

"Yes, there was. He was in a physical altercation with another student." He reported, looking judgmentally at your younger brother. You joined him, looking at Kenny in disbelief.

"You got into a fight?" You asked, disappointment dripping from your voice. Kenny winced and looked down, hiding behind his hood. You turned your gaze to the principal, hoping beyond hope that, at the very least, your brother hadn't started it.

"What exactly happened? Who did he fight with?" You inquired. PC Principal lowered his sunglasses, fixing you with a stern look.

"Well, according to the other child involved, Token Black, Kenny verbally attacked him with slurs, and when Token reciprocated, Kenny threw the first punch. The recess monitor had to pull the two apart." Your jaw dropped and you stared hard at Kenny, who still wouldn't look up at you.

" _Kenneth Christopher!_ " You exclaimed. "You did _not_ use racial slurs, did you? I didn't raise a racist!" You began to lecture, but PC Principal cut you off.

"No, no, he didn't use racial slurs," he assured you. "He was using classist slurs."

That stopped you in your tracks. "Classist slurs?" You echoed, to which PC Principal nodded.

"I don't even know any classist slurs. At least, none that are aimed towards rich people." You admitted.

"According to Token, Kenny used the term 'rich kid' in a pejorative manner, thus making it a slur." He explained. You bit back a frown at this- the words "rich kid" were a slur now? What were you supposed to call rich kids now, "children of higher economic status"?

"I see." You said. "So, what's his punishment?"

"He will be suspended for the rest of this week." PC Principal replied. Your heart seized in your chest at this.

"Mister, uh, Principal? I would very much appreciate it if you gave Kenny a different punishment. We can't do suspension." You replied, to which he raised an eyebrow.

"Your brother used slurs against a student and then engaged in inappropriate physical contact with that student. The punishment for that is three days' suspension, starting today. I can't change the rules just for him, nor do I wish to. What he did was completely politically incorrect." He stated firmly.

"Look, I attended this school back when Principal Victoria was the principal, and maybe you just don't know our family situation because of that, but our parents aren't exactly around. Kenny would be home alone, all day, for two days, and I don't want that to happen. I'm not even sure if that's legal. He's ten years old!" You told him, slipping the same lie you always used into your little speech. If the school knew that your parents were drunks and junkies with a tendency towards violence, you'd all be picked up by child protective services in an instant. You realized a long time ago that it was better to tell the authorities that your parents were simply out of the house for most of the day.

"Rules are rules, Mx. McCormick. If you sincerely have a problem with that, I could always report the situation to DCFS...?" He replied, a threat hanging obviously between his words. You went rigid in your seat, and you could see Kenny shift uncomfortably at the mention of the awful government agency.

"No, no! That's alright! I'm sure we can work something out." You acquiesced nervously. PC Principal nodded, gesturing towards the door.

"As I said, his suspension starts today, so you can take him with you when you leave. Enjoy your day off." He dismissed you.

"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry for the trouble my brother has caused you. Have a nice day." You said, grabbing Kenny's arm and dragging him out of the office with you.

Once you were finally out of the school's doors, you turned to your brother and glared at him.

"Really? What did I tell you this morning, Kenny?" You scoffed, making your way home with him at your side.

"You told me to beat up Token." Came his glum, muffled voice.

"I did not!" You exclaimed. "I was _kidding,_ and you know that!"

He just shrugged, exasperating you further.

"I _told_ you to be good. Why can't you ever listen to me?" You lamented, making your way to the crosswalk and crossing the street with your brother in tow. It took you a couple minutes, but you finally remembered something that Mr. Mackey told you and stopped in your tracks. Kenny turned towards you with a quizzical look, only getting more confused when you dropped to one knee in front of him to get a good look at him. He turned his head away from yours.

"Hey, Mr. Mackey told me that you had a couple bruises and scrapes. Look at me." You urged. He still wouldn't listen, so you corralled his head between your hands and manually turned it towards you, pushing his hood down in the process. Despite his squirming, you unzipped the part of his jacket that covered his face, and the sight that greeted you didn't make you happy.

He had a split lip which no one had bothered to clean up, so the blood had crusted on his chin and probably on his teeth, too. His cheek was swollen, starting to bruise, and the eye above it wasn't faring much better- it would definitely be a black eye by tomorrow.

"Jesus, Ken." You sighed, taking off your jacket and pulling your sleeve over your hand, trying to wipe some of the dried blood off his chin. He winced, but let you do it, and you did the best you could without any water or medical supplies. When your sleeve was thoroughly bloodied and you couldn't clean him any further, you just stared into his eyes. Icy blue stared back at you, still slightly squinted- probably anticipating some kind of lecture. After seeing your beat up little brother's face, however, you couldn't muster up any more scoldings. Instead, you stood up, opening your arms to him.

"C'mere." You mumbled. Kenny approached you, slightly puzzled, and you scooped him up into your arms, grunting at the added weight. While none of the McCormicks were particularly heavy, Kenny was still ten years old, and his backpack wasn't exactly lightening the load. You shifted until Kenny and his backpack were situated somewhat comfortably in your arms and proceeded to carry him home.

"Why are you carrying me?" He asked quietly, pulling his hood back up and leaning his head against your shoulder just like he used to when he was little.

"You've had a hard enough day as it is. Might as well spare you the walk home." You replied simply.

"And I'm not gonna yell at you," you added, almost as an afterthought. "I think you already get the message. Attacking Token for no reason was the wrong thing to do."

"But I did have a reason," Kenny insisted. "And I told him my reason before we fought. I told him that his spoiled, rich kid ass and his greedy fuckin' family were taking all the town's money and that because of him you didn't get to eat breakfast this morning, and he told me that it wasn't his fault that our family was trailer trash. Then I punched him."

You couldn't help the twinge of pride that ran through you despite the fact that your brother was the instigator. You didn't even bother to correct his language. Instead, you snorted and shook your head.

"It's not his fault that I didn't get to eat today. And don't worry about me, shithead. The reason I don't eat is because I want to make sure that you and Kevin and Karen are eating right. I'm still alive, so obviously, I'm fine without it." You responded, hiking him up in your arms.

"I don't need it." He fixed you with an obstinate look. You glanced at him and snorted again.

"Yeah, you do. You're ten, you need nutrients from food so that you don't grow up to be a scrawny midget. So do Karen and Kevin. I've almost stopped growing, so I don't need as much as you three do." You told him, effectively destroying whatever argument he was about to make. He huffed, burying his face further into your shoulder.

You made your way down another block before talking again. "So, is that the only reason you picked a fight with Token?" You started, smirking at your thoughts. "Or were you suffering from withdrawal because you couldn't mess with Butters or something, too?"

You could tell your brother was hesitating, so you let him chew on his words for a few minutes before he said anything.

"You were right." He spoke all of a sudden.

"Hm? What do you mean?" You raised an eyebrow.

He shifted in your arms, removing an arm from around your neck to reach into one of his parka's pocket. After a bit of fishing around, he pulled his hand out to reveal a wad of crumpled bills.

"Holy shit, Kenny, you didn't," you choked out, trying not to laugh.

"Once I got him on the ground, I grabbed what I could from his pockets." He explained, looking at the cash in his hand, slightly nervous.

"How much is that?" You snickered, giving up on holding it back. Kenny, seeing that you weren't angry, smiled.

"I counted it real quick while I was sitting outside the principal's office. It's like thirty bucks, I think." He said, grinning proudly at you.

You sighed. "I don't want to encourage this kind of behavior. Stealing is wrong," you admonished. Kenny deflated a little bit, but you were quick to continue. "That being said... Good work. I already stole some sandwiches from school for dinner, but we could use that to get a little more food for the rest of the week." He brightened right back up after you said that.

"Why don't you want to encourage me to steal if you steal stuff yourself?" He asked cheekily. You gave him an unamused look, running through the options in your mind before settling on telling him the truth.

"Because you're probably not good enough at it yet. If you get caught, you're fucked." You warned him.

"How am I gonna learn if I don't keep stealing?" He shot back.

"I guess I'll have to teach you some tricks at some point." You sighed, making his eyes light up in excitement. "But we're not going to tell Karen or Kevin about this, okay? I'd rather have none of you know that I steal, but I guess if I have to have a partner in crime, I'm glad it's you."

You could tell that your words really touched him, despite how closed-off your brother usually was. He leaned back against you with a smile, and you adjusted your grip on him again.

"... Thanks." He muttered into your shoulder.

You weren't usually one to get mushy, having been hardened by years of poverty, crime, and stress from taking care of your siblings, but you decided that the situation called for it.

With your mind made up, you shifted Kenny's to one arm, raising the other to peel his hood away from his head a little. You craned your neck to face him and kissed the side of his head, unruly locks of blond hair brushing your lips. You pushed his hood back up and used your now free hand to rub his back a little bit, feeling him melt further into your embrace.

"No problem, shithead." You mumbled back to him, turning onto your home's street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing sibling fics. If anyone needs a supportive older sibling (besides Butters), it's Kenny.
> 
> Christopher isn't his canonical middle name, but I've heard it enough times that I can use it as a headcanon without worrying about it. I didn't want to leave it out, because come on, who _hasn't_ had their mom or dad yell at them using their full first and middle name?


	10. Curtains: Jimmy Valmer/Reader

You snapped back into focus the instant it started to rain.

You could hear the droplets pelting the roof, and it was the first noise of the day that hadn’t made you burrow deeper under the covers and wish for it to go away. After a few minutes of listening to the muted pitter-patter, you decided that it wasn’t enough and threw the covers off. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you contemplated the sight of your feet dangling above the floor. Funny, you should’ve been doing this seven hours ago. You shook your head to knock the thoughts away before planting your feet on the floor and standing up, getting out of bed for the first time today. Shuffling over to the window, you drew back the curtains to reveal the storm outside.

Briefly, you considered going downstairs and going outside to enjoy the weather. You were quick to change your mind, hating the idea of leaving your room. Something about it was just too overwhelming today.

Everything was overwhelming today.

It took a minute, but you settled on an alternative. You opened the window and briefly struggled with the bug net before it popped out. Setting it aside, you threw a leg over the windowsill, looking straight down. It was somewhat of a drop, given that your bedroom was on the second floor, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care too much. Instead, you threw your other leg over the edge, settling yourself on the sill so that you wouldn’t plummet to the ground. You kept one hand inside the house, resting on the wall next to the window, but held the other out. The first few drops that hit your skin instantly grounded you, and despite the fact that you were technically outside of your room, you felt more relaxed than you had in bed. Even when the rain started to pick up and turn a little sideways, hitting you in the face and soaking your clothes, you remained at the window, too content to leave the spot.

So content, in fact, that you didn’t notice someone walking down the sidewalk, even when they froze in front of your house. You didn’t notice them call out to you, worry obvious in their tone. You didn’t even notice when they asked if they could come in.

Below you, Jimmy Valmer cursed. He knew he had yelled loud enough for you to hear, but you were either spaced out or ignoring him. For your sake, he decided, he’d have to let himself in.

And that’s precisely what he did. He walked up to your door, removing a hand from the handle of his crutch to try the knob. He wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or disconcerted that it was unlocked, but he ignored that for now- you were kinda, sorta, maybe in danger, and he couldn’t just leave you there!

He was quick to make his way upstairs, mentally apologizing for the water he tracked all over your floor. Once he got to your door, he didn’t even bother knocking, he just let himself in.

And there you were, sitting on the windowsill. He caught sight of the hand you were using to stabilize yourself inside the house and felt a little more relieved- you probably wouldn’t fall if he surprised you by accident- but the entire predicament still had him on edge. You obviously hadn’t paid attention to any of the times that he tried talking to you, so this time, he raised a crutch and tapped on your open door.

“Hi, James.” Your voice was quiet, subdued even, and you didn’t bother turning to look at him.

Oh, so it was one of _those_ days, was it?

“Since when the h-hell do you call me ‘James’?” He asked, trying to keep his tone light. Of course, it was hard, considering the fact that you were sitting three inches away from a broken leg. That’s if you landed on your feet of course- he didn’t even want to think about you landing any other way.

You shrugged. Deeming it safe to approach, Jimmy walked over, standing just outside of where the rain was falling through the window.

“You know, I wouldn’t recommend a fall from that height. Crutches aren’t very fashion forward- believe me, I’d know.” He joked, trying to figure out how to get through to you. He could just barely hear a puff of air leave your nose over the rain.

Yep, that was a laugh. The barest minimum of laughs, but hey, he’ll take it.

He waited a beat before going at it again.

“So, water you doing?” He started casually. This time he could actually hear you chuckle.

“That was so bad…” You replied, voice a little stronger.

“Wow, what a t-terrific audience.” He shot back sarcastically. That did it- you laughed, fully and truly. Finally, you turned to look at him, and he grinned crookedly at you.

“So, are you getting off the sill?” He asked. You shook your head and took your hand out of the rain, holding it out to him. Your offer was pretty clear, so he stepped closer, blinking as the rain started to pelt him. He stepped up to your side and removed a hand from an arm brace, balancing heavily on the other to hold your hand.

“You can sit with me, you know.” You reminded him, scooting farther to the side to accommodate him.

“I know, I’m just trying to f-figure out how to do that with these,” he gestured to his crutches. You quirked your lips to the side, thinking for a moment, before you came up with an idea.

“Put your arm around my shoulders.” You commanded, letting go of his hand. He did so, and was about to crack another joke before you cut him off. “Now drop the other crutch and grab the windowsill.”

He did so. Despite the fact that he had most of his weight leaning on you, you barely moved- Jimmy had always been pretty thin, if not underweight.

“Now push yourself onto the windowsill. Might want to straddle it at first.” You suggested, watching him carefully as he did so. He teetered just a little too far to the side, and you felt your heart stop for a second as you lunged forward to stick a hand in front of him, preventing him from falling further. It was an awkward position, but he regained his balance nonetheless.

“Thanks,” he replied, sounding a little winded from the near-disaster. You nodded, keeping your arm there as he got his other leg over the edge, fully facing the outdoors. You only took it away when he assured you that he had his balance. He didn’t take his arm from your shoulders, however, and you didn’t ask him to.

“So, you skipped school today.” Jimmy started, not sure how to broach the topic aside from directly addressing it.

“Mmhm.” You mumbled. “Just too much today, you know?”

He did know. You got like this sometimes. He had no idea what the problem was- anxiety, depression, dissociation, it could have been literally anything. You never told him, and he wasn’t going to make you.

“Did I miss much?” You inquired. He shook his head.

“S-Same old, same old.” He answered.

You carried on in silence, enjoying the rain, before shooting him another question.

“Why were you outside in the rain?”

“I had A.V. Club today.” He explained.

The quiet returned, this time for quite a while. A question of his own started to burn in his mind and he held it in for the sake of being companionable. However, when he could feel the rain starting to soak his underwear, he just had to ask:

“Are you ready to c-come back inside?”

You looked over at him. He was starting to shiver a little, and if he was outside for much longer, he was probably going to get sick. Suddenly, you felt bad.

“... Are you gonna stay here?” You inquired, voice small. He could hear the guilt from a mile away.

“As long as you need me. It’s okay.” He reassured, smiling to ward off your unspoken apology. You looked down, and then back up at him, something sure in your expression.

“Then, yeah. Let’s head back in.”

You both dismounted, and Jimmy picked his crutches back up. You replaced the screen and then shut the window, leaving the curtains open for once. It didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Hey,” he called as you walked away to go grab some towels. You turned around, already halfway out the door.

“What?” You responded.

“I’m proud of you.” He grinned. 

And even though you tried to hide it, he could catch the smile on your face as you turned to get those towels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this one that much. I just wanted to write something for Jimmy, honestly.


	11. Drawing: Stan Marsh/Reader (Platonic)

Your phone rang, instantly breaking your concentration.

You sighed, getting up from your desk chair to walk over to your bed, ditching your textbook. You picked up the abandoned device to check the caller ID. _Mom._

Huh, this was unusual.

You promptly answered it, holding it up to your ear and giving an awkward “Yeah?”

Your mom got straight to the point. _”(Y/N), honey, can I ask you a favor?”_

Of course.

“What did dad do this time?” You sighed.

_”No, no, your father didn’t do anything. This is about Stan.”_

You perked up at this, immediately more engaged in the conversation. “What happened?”

 _”Nothing, really,”_ she started, sounding a little defensive. _”Your father and I decided to clean out your bedroom, and when Stan saw, he got really upset. We tried to explain to him that it just makes sense since you don’t live here anymore, but he wouldn’t listen. He went into your room and locked the door and now he won’t come out.”_

“Wait, you’re throwing out my stuff?” You asked, eyebrows furrowed. No one had told you about that.

 _”Not throwing it out, just… Cleaning. It was your father’s idea.”_ She clarified hesitantly.

You tried to swallow your annoyance. Of fucking _course_ it was your dad’s idea.

“So what do you want me to do?”

 _”I don’t know.”_ Well, that sure was helpful. _”He won’t listen to me, or Randy, or Shelly. Could you talk to him?”_

“How?” You responded. 

_”I’ll go see if he’ll take the phone.”_ You could hear her knock on a door and call out for Stan. You ran a hand down your face- that was not going to work, and you knew it. 

_”Stan, (Y/N)’s on the phone!”_ She bribed. 

In the background, you could hear Stan yell back, saying something like “I’m not falling for that!” 

Your mom sighed. _”Well, I tried.”_

You rolled your eyes, already knowing what her next request would be. “I’ll be over in a couple hours.” You replied. 

_”Thank you, sweetie. I’ll see you then.”_ She was quick to hang up, and you groaned, pocketing your phone and grabbing your jacket from the back of your desk chair. You paced over to the mirror, making sure you were relatively presentable before walking out of your dorm and locking it on your way out. You kept your keys out as you made your way to the parking lot. 

__“Lucky I don’t have any classes scheduled for tomorrow,” you muttered, getting into your car and starting it up. Soon enough, you were on the CO-93, speeding towards home at sixty-five miles per hour._ _

When you finally parked in front of the dark green house, it was around 10:00 PM. Not exactly late for one of your Friday nights, but probably past your parents’ (and Stan’s) bedtimes. ‘ _Unless dad’s up getting drunk again,_ ’ you sneered at your thoughts, getting out of the car. You walked up to the door and fiddled with your keys, finding the underused house key and inserting it into the door. It opened with a quiet click, and you stepped inside, turning around to lock it back and take your shoes off. 

__When you turned around, your mom was standing right behind you, smiling. She opened her arms for a hug and you wrapped your arms around her, bearing the tight squeeze she gave you._ _

__“I’m glad to have you home! You haven’t visited since Christmas!” She pulled away, giving you a scolding look._ _

__“Sorry, mom.” You replied sheepishly, pulling off your jacket. “It’s kinda hard, with school and all.”_ _

__“I understand that. But you could at least come keep your poor mother company sometimes.” She joked. You were about to respond in kind when your father walked in from the kitchen, a can of beer in his hand._ _

__“(Y/N)!” He exclaimed, stumbling a little bit. “Surprised to see you here!”_ _

__You frowned, not up for your dad’s drunken bullshit tonight. Stepping away from your mom and towards the stairs, you turned to address them both._ _

__“Yeah, dad, I’m here to see Stan. Which I’m gonna do now, if that’s okay?” You aimed the question more towards your mother._ _

__“Oh, of course! I’ll be waiting down here with your father. Please, try to get him out of that room- he didn’t even come out for dinner.” She shot you a pleading look, and you nodded, walking up the stairs and down the hall. You stopped at the second door on the left, your bedroom door, and knocked on it._ _

“Go _away!_ ” Your brother yelled. 

__You snorted. “Wow, I make the two hour drive from Boulder back to this shithole, and that’s the greeting I get? Thanks, baby bro.”_ _

__The door was cracked open in two seconds, Stan peeking out of it._ _

__“(Y/N)?” He asked, surprised._ _

__“No, I’m a clone.” You rolled your eyes at him._ _

__He opened the door a little wider, about to let you in, before he narrowed his eyes at you._ _

__“Why are you here?” He questioned._ _

__You smirked a little. Kid was smart, you’d give him that._ _

__“To talk to you. Mom called me and tried to give you the phone, but you didn’t believe her. So, I decided to pay you a visit.” You explained, noting that he didn’t look any less guarded. “And I’m not gonna force you out of my room or push whatever our parents’ agenda is. I just wanna talk, college kid to midget. That sound fair to you?”_ _

__Finally, he relaxed, pulling the door open all the way and stepping aside to let you enter. You walked past him, taking in the sight of your room. It looked more or less the same, but upon closer inspection you noticed that certain things were missing. A couple posters that had been there were gone, and your mirror had been removed from the wall._ _

__“They were taking your stuff out,” he tattled, moving to stand next to you. “They only took some stuff down from the walls by the time that I caught them.”_ _

__“Yeah, mom told me that she was ‘cleaning’ my room when she called. Conveniently enough, she didn’t say anything about it beforehand.” You scoffed._ _

__“They didn’t tell me anything about it either.” He added._ _

__“I could’ve guessed.” You snarked playfully, looking down at him before remembering something.  
“Hey, do you know if they got to anything besides the walls?”_ _

__“I don’t think so, why?” He shot you a quizzical look, growing even more puzzled when you grinned mischievously._ _

__You didn’t answer him, instead turning to your closet and opening the door. You moved the clothes that you left behind out of the way, shoving aside a few boxes to reveal a completely inconspicuous cardboard box._ _

__You cheered quietly, kneeling to open the box. “Hell yes, they didn’t-”_ _

__It was empty._ _

__You stared at the bottom of the cardboard box. “What the hell?” You blurted, baffled. “Did they find my stash?” You questioned, turning around to look at Stan._ _

__He shuffled his feet. “Your stash?” He echoed._ _

__“Yeah, there was a stash of booze in this box that I’ve kept there since high school.” You went on, staring at your brother._ _

__“Oh. Maybe mom and dad found it before they started cleaning your room?” He suggested. You narrowed your eyes at him. He didn’t seem too sure about that answer._ _

__You kept quiet, watching his fidgeting get worse the longer you stared. Soon enough he broke eye contact completely, eyes flicking around your room. Yeah, he definitely knew something._ _

__You stood up, replacing all the boxes and clothes that you had thrown about in your search. Shutting your closet door, you approached your brother, crossing your arms and staring him down._ _

__“What happened to my stash, Stan?” You asked pointedly._ _

__“I don’t know what you-”_ _

“ _Stanley._ ” You cut him off, your tone dead serious. You could see him swallow. 

__“... I found it.” He admitted, scratching the back of his hand._ _

__“What happened to it?” You relaxed your stance, backing off a little now that he was telling the truth._ _

__It took him a minute, but he finally ‘fessed up completely. “I drank it.” He said, closing his eyes tightly. You stared at him, shocked._ _

__“What?” Your tone was so flat that it was more of a statement than a question._ _

__“I drank it, okay?!” He exclaimed. You were about to reply that there was no way, but he cut you off._ _

__“There were twelve beers in the box- two Budweisers, four Bud Lights, two cans of Coors Light, three bottles of Heineken, and one bottle of Corona Extra. You also had a small bottle of Jack Daniels and a flask full of what I think was vodka.” He recited. You looked at him with wide eyes, three parts appalled, two parts upset, and one part impressed, like the shittiest margarita ever._ _

__“And you drank all of that.” You stated. It wasn’t quite a question, but Stan nodded anyway._ _

__You shot forward, gripping his shoulders tightly and glaring into his eyes. He jolted at your touch, staring up at you in surprise._ _

“What the _fuck_ are you doing drinking all that, Stan?” You hissed, shaking him a bit for emphasis. “That much alcohol could last me a fucking year, and I’ve only been gone for five months! How long did it take you to drink all of that, huh?” 

__“... Three weeks.” He admitted hesitantly. You gasped, shaking him harder._ _

“Three fucking weeks?!” You exclaimed. “Stanley Randall Marsh, you are _ten_ years old! What the fuck is wrong with you? What possessed you to do that? You could’ve gotten fucking alcohol poisoning, you dumbass!” Stan was about to reply, with something defensive no doubt, but you realized something- if he got through all that alcohol in such a short time, he had to have more in his room. With that in mind, before he could get another word out, you were storming out of your room and across the hall into his. 

__“What are you doing?” He whisper-shouted, following you. “Get out of my room!”_ _

__You didn’t pay any attention to him, immediately going to his closet and rooting through it for hidden bottles or boxes. Finding nothing, you turned to his bed, kneeling down and pulling out your phone to use as a flashlight. Nothing under there, either. Next you tried his desk drawers, coming up empty once again. All the while, your brother trailed you, trying to pull you away from his things. Bedside table, toybox, the drawer that his football rested on, you found nothing in any of these._ _

__Finally, you turned to the chest of drawers that sat beside the door. The top drawer yielded nothing, but upon kneeling and opening the bottom one, you hit the jackpot. Underneath his folded pajamas was a long green bottle, which you were quick to yank out- Jameson Irish Whiskey._ _

__You turned to Stan, holding up the bottle. He looked between your eyes and the whiskey nervously, rooted to the spot._ _

“What. The _fuck_. Is this.” You ground out, voice low and dangerous. 

__“... I need it.” He replied weakly._ _

__You took a deep breath, fighting the urge to yell in his face that no, he didn’t. Instead, you gave him a stern look, staying on your knees to stay at eye level._ _

__“Explain.”_ _

__He looked grateful that you didn’t decimate him on the spot, picking at his nails as he rushed to justify the presence of juice in his jammies._ _

__“Remember my birthday last October?” He started._ _

__“Yeah, I had a bunch of important tests that week, so I couldn’t be there.” You recalled._ _

He nodded. “Yeah,” he sounded crestfallen at the reminder. “Anyway, after it, everything started seeming like shit. Like, everything I saw and heard was literally _shit_. I couldn’t listen to music or watch movies or eat ice cream because it was all shit.” 

__Your lips quirked down and you gestured for him to go on._ _

__“I went to the doctor, and he diagnosed me with cynicism. After that, everything just got worse. Even people started looking and sounding like shit. I got sent to the counselor’s office for pointing it out in class, because everyone thought I was just being a negative asshole, and Mr. Mackey diagnosed me with Asperger’s.” At that, you scoffed._ _

__“Mr. Mackey’s a fucking idiot.” You said._ _

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Mom took me to a group therapy center for people with Asperger’s, but no one there actually had Asperger’s- they were a bunch of douchebags in sunglasses who called themselves the Secret Society of Cynics. They told me that the world actually _was_ shit, and that we were the only people who could see the truth. They said everyone else didn’t notice because of aliens or robots or some shit, so I had to go back to the ‘illusionary world’ or whatever to help them fight them. To do that, they gave me a glass of that,” he said, gesturing to the bottle in your hand. “They literally pumped me full of it. It was the only way to get everything to stop looking like shit.” 

__“I tried to stop. I stood up to the Secret Society guy and told him that I didn’t want any more, and I was okay with the changes in my life, like mom and dad’s divorce.” He continued._ _

__You frowned. “And then they got back together.”_ _

__“Yeah…” He started. “I thought I was learning something. I thought life was gonna change and get better, but it didn’t. It went right back to normal. Dad’s still a drunken idiot, mom’s still clueless, Shelly’s still evil, you’re still away, Kyle’s still my best friend, and every day is the same. Mom told me to ‘stick with what I know,’ so I did, but it didn’t make me feel any different. I felt… let down. And it was hard to face the exact same thing again after I just got used to something different. So…” He waved a hand towards the liquor, and you got the point._ _

__You set down the bottle and ran a hand through your hair, sighing. You weren’t sure where to start._ _

__“... I get how you feel.” You said after a long pause._ _

__“You do?” Stan looked at you hopefully._ _

“Yeah. Why do you think I don’t come back here unless I have to? College scared me at first, but after a while I realized that being in the city is way better than being stuck in South Park. Now that I’m out, I hate coming home and having to deal with the same shit that always happens down here, _especially_ dad’s alcoholism.” You scowled at the thought of it. 

__“Yeah, he’s just getting worse.” Stan frowned. You raised an eyebrow at him, but didn’t bother to point out the hypocrisy of his statement._ _

“Just because you’re sick of the status quo _doesn’t_ mean that you should be boozing up though, Stan.” You chided casually. 

__“But you had a ton of alcohol in your closet.” He defended._ _

__“Yeah, but like I said, that would’ve lasted me a year. I didn’t drink all that much, most of that was leftovers from hanging out with friends, and I usually shared what I brought.” He deflated a little at that._ _

__“Well… What am I supposed to do, then? You said it didn’t get better until you went to college. That’s like eight years from now! Am I supposed to wait that long to be happy?” He looked at you pleadingly, begging you for an answer you didn’t have. You thought for a second, chewing on the inside of your cheek before speaking._ _

__“Stan, have you ever considered the possibility that you aren’t just cynical?” You proposed._ _

__“What do you mean?” He replied._ _

__“I mean, I wouldn’t know, I never got diagnosed with cynicism, but a lot of what you’re describing doesn’t sound cynical. Feeling let down by life, feeling like every day is the same, feeling like you need to drink just to feel okay… I don’t want to diagnose you because I’m not a doctor, but that sounds a lot more like depression than cynicism.”_ _

__Stan stiffened. “So, I’m depressed? I’m really messed up?” He asked, looking down at his hands, not really aiming the question towards you._ _

“Hey,” you started strongly, making him look back up at you. “You’re _not_ messed up. And we don’t even know if you’re depressed.” 

__“How do we know I’m not?” He countered._ _

__“You wouldn’t even be saying you have it if I hadn’t brought it up,” you shot back. “Don’t self-diagnose. You’re just going to make yourself more unhappy if you start submitting to a mental illness. Even if you do have depression, it’s not your identity.” You gave him a firm look._ _

__“That didn’t answer my question.” He pointed out. You huffed at his persistence._ _

__“You’d need to see a psychiatrist.” You told him. His face fell._ _

__“Then I’d have to tell mom and dad. I really don’t want to, especially not dad- he’s going to tell me I’m fine.” Stan mumbled._ _

__You paused for a second. “Not necessarily.” You said, contemplative. He furrowed his eyebrows._ _

__“Not necessarily what?” He questioned._ _

__“You wouldn’t necessarily have to tell mom and dad.” You explained._ _

__“How?” He inquired, skeptical._ _

__“I could take you to see a psychiatrist and pose as mom. I’d just need to grab her insurance card from her purse, and my fake ID that has her name on it instead of mine.” You elaborated, working out the logistics of your plan in your head._ _

__“You have a fake ID with mom’s name on it?” He sounded surprised._ _

__You chuckled. “Yeah, of course I do. How do you think I got all the booze to put in my stash?”_ _

“Won’t it cost money, though?” 

__“I mean, yeah, but I’m taking mom’s insurance card, so I’ll only have to pay a copay, which will be like fifty dollars at most. You probably don’t understand the process yet and you don’t need to until you’re my age, so don’t worry about it.” You waved his concern off._ _

__“You’d pay fifty dollars just to hear what’s wrong with me?” His eyes narrowed. He almost looked… distrustful? Jesus, what had happened to your little brother?_ _

__“Well, yeah,” you started, frowning at his skepticism. “You’re my baby bro. If there’s something wrong with you, I want to get it figured out. And if the psychiatrist says you need therapy or medicine or something, then we’ll talk about it and I’ll get it for you. Mom and dad don’t have to know- I’ll front the cost. I don’t know what’ll happen if mom calls the insurance company or looks up her bill and sees that the insurance has been paying for treatment, but maybe I can figure something out so that they send the billing record to me since I’m still on her insurance plan…” You trailed off, muttering complicated nothings to yourself about how you’d work it out to keep his mental health a secret. You were snapped out of your one-sided dialogue when you felt arms dart around your neck and squeeze._ _

__“Thank you.” Stan mumbled gratefully. You smiled, wrapping your arms around him and holding him tightly._ _

__“Anything for you, Stanny. And hey, if you need therapy or meds, that means I’ll be around more to get you there or get them to you. Even if you don’t, even if you’re fine, if you want me to start coming around the house more, I’ll stop by more often.” You offered._ _

“... No.” He sniffled. “No, I want to go to Boulder. Then neither of us has to be here. I want to get the hell _away_ from this redneck town.” 

__“Ay, language,” you snorted, thinking for a moment. “... But you know what? Fuck it, yeah, you can come to Boulder with me when you want. That is something we’d have to ask mom and dad for, but I’ll tell them that you’re trying to figure out what you want to do as a career so we’re taking tours of the campus.”_ _

__“Do we have to?” He muttered._ _

__“Hell no!” You laughed. “We can stay in my dorm and fuck around, or we can go and find something to do. I’m not sure if you’re technically allowed to stay in my dorm, but the dorm supervisor can go fuck herself.”_ _

__“... Can we do that right now?” He proposed meekly._ _

__“It’s,” you started, taking out your phone to check the time, “almost 11:00 PM. Do you think our parents are gonna go for that?”_ _

__“If dad’s drunk enough.” Stan snorted. You snorted back._ _

__“Alright, midget.” You responded, standing up and balancing him on your hip. He was about to pull away from your neck but you stopped him with a hand on his back._ _

__“Hey, if you stay there and act like you’re still upset, mom’s more likely to say yes. Lemme see your face.” He turned towards you, revealing a couple tears still stuck stubbornly to his face. You smiled. “Yeah, leave those there and give me a good sob.”_ _

__He heaved out a high-pitched sob. Your smile split into a grin._ _

__“Heartbreaking.” You said, walking down the hall with him in your arms. “Okay, action!” You whispered, carrying him down the stairs. He continued his sobbing, locking his arms even tighter around your neck. You plastered a pitying look on your face as you came within sight of your parents, both of whom looked over to the uncharacteristically hysteric boy._ _

__“Oh, Stanley.” Your mom frowned, walking over to him. She moved to take him from your arms, but he only sobbed louder, squeezing harder and choking out a “No!”_ _

__“Yeah, he’s been like this for a little while.” You said, rubbing a hand up and down his back as he shuddered. “He won’t let go, and he said he wants to go back with me.”_ _

__“Stan, honey, you know (Y/N) can’t do that-” she started, reaching out to grab him again, but you cut her off._ _

__“Actually, I can. I live in a single dorm, so no roommate. There’s no rules against bringing someone over for a sleepover or something, so he could stay the night. Hell, he could stay the weekend if you let him.” You proposed slyly. Your mom looked between you and your dad._ _

__“Randy, do you think-” She began, just to get cut off yet again._ _

__“Yeah, let him go.” Your father waved a hand, taking another swig of yet another beer. “I don’t want to hear his whining all weekend anyway. Keep him till Sunday.”_ _

__“Randy!” Your mom scolded, glaring at her husband before turning to you. “If it’s no trouble, could you-”_ _

__Wow, your mom was not having much luck with finishing her sentences tonight._ _

__“Sure. I don’t mind. Hear that, Stan?” You jostled him a little. “You’re staying with me this weekend!”_ _

__He pulled away, revealing his tears. To your surprise, his face was coated with them- he was shockingly good at producing crocodile tears. Crafty little bastard._ _

__“Thanks,” he croaked to your mom, which completely sealed the deal for her. She smiled at you gratefully, wiping a few tears off of Stan’s face._ _

__“You two go pack an overnight bag for him. Your father and I are going to bed. I trust you’ll get him there and back safely?” She asked vacantly, walking over to pull your dad off the couch. He mumbled a few protests, but followed her up the stairs._ _

__“Scout’s honor.” You stated, watching as they disappeared into their bedroom with one last “goodnight.”_ _

__Once their door was shut, Stan wiped his face, turning to you and grinning. You grinned right back._ _

__“Faker,” you teased._ _

__“Liar,” he shot back._ _

__Soon enough, he had a bag packed and sitting in the back seat. He was buckled up in shotgun and you were driving, turning onto the 285 to get back to your dorm._ _

__“Oh, yeah,” he started talking out of nowhere, reaching into his pants pocket. “I forgot something.”_ _

__“What, at home?” You inquired, keeping your eyes on the road._ _

__“No, I mean I forgot to give you something.” He said, producing a folded piece of paper and unfolding it, smoothing it out against the dash. He grabbed his phone from his pants pocket and turned on the flashlight, holding it over the paper so you could see it._ _

__“Mom and dad were taking it down when I caught them. They were probably gonna throw it out, so I took it from them before I pushed them out and locked the door.” He explained. You had no idea what he was talking about until you glanced over at the paper._ _

__On it was a terribly drawn picture of two people on a swing set. It was scribbled out in crayon, and above it were two names, “Stan” and a horribly misspelled attempt at your name. You recognized it instantly- Stan had drawn that for you when he was four years old after a day at the park, and you had taped it to your bedroom wall, not taking it down since._ _

__“Jesus, I almost forgot about that picture.” You admitted, flicking your eyes between the road and the drawing._ _

__“Yeah, well, I knew you wouldn’t have wanted them to throw it out.” Stan muttered, seeming a little embarrassed. You chalked that up to his not wanting to seem mushy._ _

__You smirked. He was totally failing._ _

__You reached a hand over and removed his favorite hat, ruffling his hair._ _

__“Thanks, baby bro.”_ _

__He grumbled something back, fixing his hair. You rolled your eyes at his “grown-up” behavior._ _

__“I love you.” You replied, purposely making your voice sappy, which earned you a small shove from him._ _

Didn’t matter how tough he was acting- you still heard the “Love you too” he mumbled back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I writing so many sibling stories?
> 
> Also, once again, "Randall" is not his canon middle name, but it's been in the fanon for long enough that I'm using it anyway.


	12. Drag: Pete/Reader

“Can I take your order?” The irritated woman asked, not even bothering with her pad and pencil for this group of kids.

“Just get us some coffee.” Pete said, flipping his hair out of his eyes as it started to irritate him again. The woman rolled her eyes, not even bothering to complain about them as she walked away to get them the coffee that they always ordered.

The goth kids brooded amongst themselves for a few minutes while they waited for their caffeine fix, but once it finally arrived, it was accompanied by something rather unexpected.

“Who are you?” Henrietta grimaced, looking you up and down. You smiled courteously, reaching over to grab her empty mug and fill it with the coffee pot in your hand.

“I feel like however I answer you, you’re going to call me a conformist.” You responded, catching all four of them off guard.

“And how would you know that, conformist?” Michael shot back with the barest amount of interest.

“Yep, there it is.” You chuckled. “I go to the same school as you guys. I’ve seen you around.”

“Oh, great, another Britney wannabe from school here to pollute our airspace with perfume and positivity.” Firkle griped as you filled his coffee cup.

You said nothing, focusing on the task at hand. Once everyone had a cup full of coffee, instead of walking away with the pot, you reached into your apron pocket and pulled out a black square of knitted yarn, placing it on the table before putting the coffee pot on top of it.

“Why are you leaving it there? The usual waitress just takes it with her.” Pete inquired, giving you a side-eye.

“Well, I just thought that you guys wouldn’t want me bothering you, so I might as well leave it with you.” You shrugged. Despite their efforts, they weren’t particularly intimidating.

“Why would you care?” Henrietta gave you a similarly skeptical look.

“Do you want me up your ass all night like the lady who usually serves your table?” You shot back.

“... Whatever, conformist.” She returned, not wanting to admit that you had made a good point. You merely smiled at her and turned around, walking to the front to seat a table of people who had been waiting by the door.

A few hours later, you noticed that the goth kids’ ashtrays were full thanks to them having sat there and smoked the entire time. Out of the kindness of your heart, and out of not wanting to wipe cigarette ashes off the table and seats later on, you appeared at their table a couple minutes later with a wastebasket in hand. The four teens looked at you boredly.

“What are you doing back here?” Michael sighed. You made eye contact with him and lifted the bin a little higher, shaking it for emphasis. Judging by their confused and annoyed facial expressions, they clearly didn’t get it.

You sighed and grabbed the nearest ashtray- Firkle’s- before emptying it into the basket. They looked between each other, asking each other what the hell was going on with their eyes as you proceeded down the booth, next emptying Henrietta’s ashtray, then Michael’s. Last was Pete’s, but before you grabbed it, you noticed that he had a lit cigarette sitting in one of the notches in the rim.

“Could you take that out?” You asked, gesturing towards the cigarette. More than half of it was left, it would’ve been a total waste to throw it out.

Pete flipped his hair out of his eyes to fix you with an irritated look. “Why should I do anything for you, conformist?” He challenged.

“Because I’m doing something for you.” You offered.

“Whatever.” He scoffed. You rolled your eyes- you didn’t have time to play his games, you were on the clock.

Making a snap decision, you picked the cigarette up, popping it into your mouth before picking up his ashtray and dumping it. The goths stared at you dumbfoundedly as you took a deep drag and blew a cloud of smoke out of your nose without coughing even a little bit. After setting the ashtray back down on the table, you replaced the cigarette, looking at Pete disapprovingly.

“Newports? Really? We’re in high school, you can find someone who can get you a pack of Marlboros.” You smirked before turning and walking away, leaving a stunned silence in your wake. The four left not long after that, having barely talked after the odd exchange and yet still in silent agreement about something:

For a conformist, you weren’t that bad.

In fact, they started coming around Village Inn a little more often. You were their server every time after that day, being practically assigned to them because the other employees (mainly the one cranky lady with saggy tits) couldn’t stand them, and every time you provided exemplary service. You used your little knitted square to keep the coffee on their table without burning the wood, you made new pots of coffee as soon as theirs had gone cold or they had run out, you emptied their ashtrays without being asked- hell, you even started leaving lighters at their table after they had all forgotten to bring a light one day. Not once did you get angry at them or complain about their lack of ordering things (you had actually tried to give them something to eat for free one day, worried about their habit of only smoking and drinking coffee for hours on end without anything substantial in their stomachs. They had refused to eat, citing a fear of “conformist poison” in the food). You even put up with them calling you a Britney wannabe Nazi conformist cheerleader, only smiling at their attempts to offend you.

The other three may have accepted your presence, but Pete knew there was something wrong with you. You were too nice. It was unsettling how little their words could get to you, and that stupid fucking smile you always plastered on your face didn’t make it any better.

Unfortunately, that day, he’d have to be putting up with it alone. Michael was at anger management, Henrietta had gotten grounded by her parents for telling her mom that she was a blood-pissing demon fucker, and Firkle was off doing whatever it was that a goth middle schooler would be doing, leaving Pete to go to Village Inn by himself. He could’ve just not gone, but he and his friends had been showing up there almost every day at this point, and where the hell else could get coffee and smoke uninterrupted?

Well, mostly uninterrupted, as proven when you showed up with a fresh pot of coffee minutes after he sat down in the usual booth. You glanced around, seeing that the other three were not there and not bothering to ask or comment about it, instead pouring Pete his cup of coffee, whipping out the familiar knitted square and setting the pot down on it. You smiled at him, nodding mutely before walking away.

Huh. It’s almost like you could tell that he wanted to be left alone and wasn’t in the mood to answer superfluous questions like “Oh, the other three aren’t here today?”.

‘ _I guess I appreciate it,_ ’ He thought, flipping his hair out of his eyes and brooding over his coffee. He stuck a hand into his pants pocket, fishing around for his cigarettes, only to come up empty-handed. Trying his other pockets, he quickly realized that he had left them at home. He couldn’t help but groan, sipping his coffee forlornly. It wasn’t a proper goth outing if he didn’t have coffee _and_ cigarettes.

You, hearing his groan, glanced over at the table while passing out menus to a couple of patrons. You told them that you’d be back to take their orders shortly and left their booth, making your way quickly but casually to the lone goth. Upon seeing your arrival, Pete glared at you, just waiting for you to start talking and making his day even worse. Instead, your eyes flicked around the table, trying to figure out what was wrong. Empty ashtray, empty hand, empty mouth- yep, this kid was out of cigarettes.

Having made your deduction, you nodded to yourself and walked away, baffling him completely. What the hell did you even come over here for, then?

“Conformist bitch…” Pete mumbled into the rim of his cup, practically chugging it to make everything more bearable.

What he didn’t expect was for you to come back. He raised an eyebrow at you, even less in the mood for your Britney wannabe bullshit, but was quick to furrow that brow when you tossed something onto the table.

A pack of Marlboros.

He shot you a quizzical look, but once again, you merely smiled and turned to walk away.

“Wait,” he called out, stopping you. You turned without a word, staring at him expectantly.

“Why the fuck are you so nice?” He asked bluntly.

“What?” You replied.

“You heard me.” He frowned. “You put up with our calling you names, you don’t bitch about how we won’t eat, you put lighters at our table for us,” he picked up one you had left there for emphasis- it was black, as always. “You’re too fucking nice and it creeps me out. Why?” He finished grilling you, fixing you with an expectant look.

You quirked your lips to the side a little bit, puzzling over how to answer him. After a minute, you sighed.

“Look,” you started, watching him grab a cigarette from the pack and light up (he’d need one to get through listening to the conformist cheerleader speech you were about to give him, he figured). “You guys always come in here wearing almost all black, in terrible moods and unwilling to do anything but drink coffee, smoke, and mutter amongst yourselves. I realize that that’s probably just a goth thing, since you do the same thing at school minus the coffee, but I realized that to _be_ goth in the first place, the world… The world must have done you dirty.” This got his attention, but he looked away, inhaling a lungful of smoke.

“I know you guys don’t want to hear me talk because I’m a conformist asshole, so I keep quiet. I serve you your coffee and leave you alone and make sure you guys can smoke without worrying about getting a light or emptying your ashtray because I figure that I can make every day a little more bearable for you that way. There’s no use in kicking you while you’re down like everyone else does.” You finished, looking at him determinedly. He was still looking away, practically hiding behind his bangs at this point. You assumed he had nothing more to say to you, so you turned to keep doing your job, but he stopped you again.

“Wait.” He repeated. You spun back around once more, confused as to why he’d call you back yet again.

He took his cigarette out from between his lips, holding it out to you. His offer was clear, but he still decided to speak up.

“Want a drag?” He muttered, flipping his hair out of his face with an irritated huff. You smiled, plucking the cigarette from his fingers and taking a good, long inhale. You handed it back to him, blowing the smoke back out your nose before nodding gratefully to him and walking away.

Pete put it back in his mouth and took his own drag. You were right, Marlboros _were_ better.

He would never admit that it tasted even better after your lips had been around it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing for the goth kids.
> 
> Anyway, I put up a poll on Quotev about whether or not I should write a series (and what should be in that series), and I would very much appreciate if you would go take it so that I could have some more of your opinions to work with!
> 
> Here's the link: https://www.quotev.com/quiz/12722311/What-should-Forthwrite-forth-write


	13. Management: Michael/Reader

When the anger management therapist sat up in his chair as if he finally had something important to say, Michael knew today would suck.

“Everyone, listen up.” He said, looking around the room. “Today, we have someone new joining us. I’d like you all to welcome (Y/N)!”

The door behind him creaked open and in you walked, fingers dug into the hem of your sweatshirt. Your eyes darted around the room, probably getting used to the sight of the wackjobs you’d be stuck with for the next ten weeks.

“Say hello, (Y/N)!” The counselor coaxed. The best you could do was a short wave and a quiet “Hi,” before rushing over to your seat, which was (unfortunately) right next to Michael’s.

As the lesson proceeded, though, he realized that you weren’t going to be as much of a nuisance as he expected- namely because you didn’t talk _whatsoever_. Even when prompted, you didn’t participate once- you merely sat there and fiddled with your sweatshirt. Whenever someone called your name, you’d look down nervously and avoid their gaze until they decided to talk to someone else.

You were a total weirdo.

After class, Michael was standing at the bus stop, waiting for the bus to bring him back to his conformist shithole of a house, when out of the corner of his eye he saw you walk up and sit down on the bench. His eyes narrowed, wondering what the little weirdo was doing here, and he took a drag of his cigarette to keep his annoyance at bay. Unfortunately, that just caused him more problems.

“Um…” Came your meek voice for the first time in two hours, immediately getting his attention (though he didn’t bother to show it by looking at you). “Could you please put that out?”

He scoffed. “Why should I?”

“I’m sorry, the, uh, tobacco gives me headaches.” You explained. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that you were looking at him, and he didn’t like it. Why were you comfortable with making eye contact all of a sudden?

“No.” He responded simply, blowing out another puff of smoke. He heard you sigh, and he could just barely see you shift, hunching over a little and burying your face into your sweatshirt. You just… gave up.

Wow, what a loser. Weren’t you supposed to have anger problems? Why’d you just submit to his smoking like that?

Well, whatever, you weren’t his problem. Once the bus rolled up, he flicked the cigarette off to who knows where and stepped on, ignoring your presence four rows ahead of him.

It wasn’t until three weeks later that you became his problem. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Michael challenged, crossing his arms.

“I just want you to make friends with them! You’ve seen them during the sessions, they won’t talk!” The therapist defended, wiping his glasses off on the bottom of his sweater as if he didn’t just saddle the goth with a bullshit assignment.

“Why me?” Michael asked exasperatedly.

“Because you two are close in age, and they already sit right by you! You probably even go to the same school, it says in your files that you’re both from South Park.”

The goth looked at him incredulously. “You went through my files just to make a point about how I should hang out with that weirdo conformist?”

“Yes, because you’ve been in here long enough that I knew you’d put up a fight.” The therapist’s smile was strained.

“No, I’m not doing it.” The goth replied, moving around the therapist to leave.

“Fine then.” The man’s voice was uncharacteristically hard. “Let’s see how content you are with that decision when I report to the court that you failed your anger management classes and need to redo all twelve weeks.”

Michael froze in his tracks. “You can’t do that.”

“Oh yes, I can. I’m the therapist here.” The therapist gloated.

Michael grit his teeth. He had already gone to five weeks worth of sessions. That was ten hours of his life pissed away in this hellhole, and he’d be damned if he had to come here any longer than he was ordered to.

“... Fine. I’ll get all buddy-buddy with the fucking poser.” He ground out.

“Great!” The therapist exclaimed. “Get them to start talking in the sessions, or you’re redoing your therapy. Oh, and Michael?” He called to the seething teen, who looked over his shoulder to glare at the man. 

“Deep breaths.” He chirped, giving him a shit-eating grin.

The goth couldn’t have slammed the door harder.

When the next session came around, you still didn’t speak a word, and Michael had no idea what to do about it. He spent those two hours trying to figure out ways to nudge you into conversation, or to start one with you himself, but all of his ideas ran the gamut from odd to absolutely creepy, so he opted to keep to himself.

Afterwards, he was smoking at the bus stop again, and there you were again, sitting on the bench with your face in your sweatshirt to avoid the cigarette fumes. Michael started plotting as to how to talk with you again, but seeing as that hadn’t done him any good during therapy, he made a quick decision.

That decision was, eloquently enough, _fuck it_.

He sighed loudly, taking his cig out of his mouth only to drop it on the ground and smash it under his boots. This caught your attention- you perked up, taking your face out of your sweatshirt, and fixed him with a quizzical expression. Shit, he wasn’t prepared for you to be staring at him like that- what was step two of _fuck it_ , again?

“Look,” he started awkwardly, “we’re the only people in that class that aren’t pathetic forty-year-olds with unfulfilling corporate jobs whose wives jack off to other men, so we might as well be… friends.”

Wow, what a rousing speech. He had to physically prevent himself from cringing at it- he sounded like a socially inept kindergartener trying to make buddies on the playground. Thankfully, you were apparently able to look past that, because you nodded. For some reason, that relieved him. And was that a smile he saw?

“Okay,” you surprised him, speaking to him for the first time in three weeks. Despite himself, he found his lips quirking up a little bit.

This verbal pact ended up becoming a lot more than it entailed. At first, the two of you just said hello when you saw each other in the hallways. In about a week, you were having full conversations with him in school, and he walked you most of the way to any classes you had near his. A week after _that_ , you approached him outside for the first time, walking boldly up to the goth kids and greeting Michael. This became a habit, so he got into the habit of putting his cigarette out whenever you walked up. The other goth kids weren’t too keen on the presence of a conformist, and thought it was even lamer that Michael was “bowing down to the wishes of that Nazi cheerleader whore” by putting out perfectly good cigarettes, but he didn’t give a shit- you really weren’t so terrible to hang around.

It was yet another school day, and Michael was sitting on the stairs behind the school awaiting your inevitable appearance when he heard the telltale noises of a crowd. Yelled encouragements, people getting shoved out of the way, feet running towards the excitement- whatever stupid confrontation was going on, it sounded like a pretty big deal.

Good thing none of the goths gave a shit. They sat there and smoked, looking at the growing pool of students with utter disinterest.

That is, until they saw a sweatshirt fly into the air in the middle of the ring.

A sweatshirt that Michael could recognize anywhere.

In an instant he was on his feet and rushing into the crowd, cigarette abandoned on the stairs. The other goths got up to see what the hell he was doing, but he didn’t care about them right now- something bad was happening, and you were in the middle of it. You were so timid, there’s no way that whatever was happening wasn’t terrifying you.

He shoved through the crowd, ignoring the insults and swearing that resulted from his rudeness, until he finally got to the front of the mob and-

Oh.

You were there, alright. And you also had your fist in the face of another student. You weren’t being victimized, no- you were kicking the absolute _shit_ out of somebody. Michael had never seen you like this before, and he didn’t know whether or not he was glad that he hadn’t. On one hand, you were acting like a fucking barbarian, and that was something that he would typically denounce as conformist machoism. On the other hand, it was a shock to see you fighting so ferociously when you could hardly be bothered to speak to other people every day, and if he was being honest? … He was kinda into it.

It wasn’t until you had downed your opponent and were sitting on his chest and beating his brains out when Michael decided he should step in (though that was mainly because he heard a couple students murmuring about a teacher showing up).

“(Y/N)!” He shouted. His voice might as well have been a dog whistle, because it stopped you mid-punch. Your body was stock-still, and your head whipped over to look at him.

Chest heaving, eyes wide, jaw set- you were a powder keg. Now, he could’ve coached you through some of the anger management tactics that you had learned in class, but as you had hung out with him, the two of you had developed a couple tricks of your own for dealing with anger. It seemed pretty useless to him at the time, since you never actually got angry, but now seemed like a good time to employ them.

“Close your eyes.” He demanded. You stared at him for a moment, perplexed, but did as he asked. The throng of students went completely silent, wondering what this goth asshole was doing and why the savage was listening to him. Even your victim was staring up at him, hazy though his vision was.

“What do you see?” He asked, walking closer to you.

“Nothing,” you replied, only to jump when Michael laid a hand on your arm.

“Good.” He said, tightening his grip on your arm. “What do you feel?”

“You.” You answered, exhaling out of your nose.

“Good.” He said, and with that, he yanked you off the bloody student and started pulling you away. He made sure to grab your fallen sweatshirt before shoving back through the awed crowd to get you away from the scene before a teacher could come and suspend you.

Once he had dragged you behind the school and sat you down on the stairs, he handed you your sweatshirt and spoke once more.

“What the hell were you doing?” He inquired, trying to meet your gaze. You were looking down, staring at your hands, which were fisted in your sweatshirt. Oh, so now you were back to not talking, huh?

“Well?” He added impatiently.

You made a dry sound, like a cough, before hunching over and burying your face into your sweatshirt, shoulders shivering. Coughs turned into whimpers, shivering turned into trembling, and soon you were full-blown sobbing into your sweatshirt.

Michael sighed, but it wasn’t a sigh of irritation. Honestly, he had no idea what he was feeling at the moment. All he knew was that when he pulled you away from your sweatshirt and into his chest, he just wanted you to feel okay again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his cigarette, still lit. He crushed it under his boot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly can't pick a favorite goth.
> 
> Not many people have taken my poll, but I kinda need reader input before I write anything substantial like a series. Please go take it.
> 
> Here's the link: https://www.quotev.com/quiz/12722311/What-should-Forthwrite-forth-write


	14. Shots: Scott Malkinson/Reader

If there is only one constant in the entire universe, it is that Token Black will throw a badass rager at his mansion every few months, and everyone will get shitfaced.

This constant was, in fact, so constant, that you found yourself outside of Token’s mansion that very evening, pondering the nature of said constant. You didn’t ponder it for longer than 0.2 seconds, however, as you were eager to go get wasted with the person currently standing next to you on Token’s comically gigantic front lawn.

That person was Scott Malkinson. Yeah, he was a total dork, but he was better company than most of the school. And it’s not like you were much better, either.

Once you opened the door, you knew that you wouldn’t be leaving in the same state you came in. People were already starting to get completely smashed, as evidenced by the cups lying abandoned on every available table. There were smatterings of cliques here and there, but two areas of the house were completely free of this social segregation- the dancefloor, and the booze table. It just so happened that tonight, you and Scott were both interested in one of the two locations.

“Hey, Scott,” you spoke suddenly, breaking him from the trance that opening the Pandora's Box of high school parties had put him in. “Be careful tonight. Watch your sugar.” You warned, laying a hand on his arm and squeezing. He nodded absently, patting your hand before departing for the kitchen table, which you took as your cue to make your way to the living room floor. Something perfectly dance-able came on, almost prophesying your arrival as you stepped into the crowd of sweaty, flailing teens. You began to dance, doing a perfectly fine job of it on your own before a rhythmic shape sidled up to you.

“Well hello there, (Y/N)!” It greeted with an eye roving over all your features. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight your grin.

“Hi, McCormick.” He set his hands on your hips but you smoothly stepped out of them, shaking your head good-naturedly but in a way that meant that you were serious. He got the hint, continuing to dance with you at a companionable distance.

He wasn’t the only one- Clyde, Butters, Token, even Tweek (though that was more to convince Craig to get his ass over there and bust a move with his boyfriend) found themselves filling in as your partner, spinning in and out of your orbit like a tipsy roulette. Of course, you weren’t quite sober yourself, having had a few beers and a shot during your brief absences from the dancefloor, but you were too focused on your physical socialization to get particularly wasted. Anyone who looked at you could tell that you were a lot more sober than your dance partners, but you didn’t care- it was funny to see a wasted Butters attempt to tap-dance.

It took a while, but you finally got your fill of dancing, twirling away from your newest companion- one very hammered David- to find some refreshments. Luckily, you were able to find something non-alcoholic, a can of pop, which you cracked open and took a sip of. The fizzy liquid almost burned on the way down your parched throat, leaving behind a strong aftertaste of sugar. Sugar…

Oh yeah, where’s Scott?

You floated over to the booze table, where a group of boys was still doing shots despite the fact that it had been at least two hours since they started. You tugged on the shirt of the first guy you saw, not caring as to who it was because it was unlikely that there was a single person at the party that you didn’t know. Lo and behold, he spun around, revealing a thoroughly juiced Stan.

“What’s up, (Y/N)?” He slurred, attempting to lean back against the kitchen table. He missed it by about an inch, tripping backwards and bumping his pelvis into it with a loud thunk. You winced, but he just laughed, apparently too drunk to feel it.

“I wanted to know where Scott is. He was over here earlier.” You attempted to jog his memory. It took a minute, but Stan’s eyes lit up in recognition.

“Oh, yeah, him! He like… He was here, but then he left.” Stan explained, nodding along to his words.

You chuckled. “Yeah, I know, but where did he go?”

He looked at you in wonder, apparently marveling at his own lack of knowledge as he proceeded to say “I dunno.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” You tried.

“Probably to, like, the bathroom or something.” He waved a hand flippantly. “He said he was really dizzy and needed to throw up.”

This got your attention. However, asking Stan more about it would likely be useless considering the fact that half of the fluid in his brain must have been alcohol by now, so you merely thanked him and tried to find someone else at the table who didn’t look like they were on the verge of passing out.

A quick scan around the table told you that your options were slim. Clyde was down for the count, Kenny was pouring another shot- though he was having better luck watering the table, because he got more alcohol outside the shot glass than inside it- Tweek had his face pressed into the table, Craig was slamming back another shot of Fireball despite the fact that he was currently struggling to keep his balance, and Pip- 

Wait, Pip!

“Yo, ‘Lip!” You called, rushing over to his side of the table. He seemed to have lost his hat at some point during the night, but other than that, he didn’t look as horrifically trashed as everyone else.

“Oh, hello (Y/N)!” He greeted politely, smiling a little too sweetly at you. Okay, so he’d definitely had a few drinks.

“Have you seen Scott around here?” You got straight to the point.

He looked off to the side, perusing his memories for a second, before having an obvious eureka moment and turning back to you excitedly.

“Yes, I have! He left a little while ago to go to the bathroom, but he probably went to the upstairs one because people have been in and out of the first floor one all night.” Damn, that was a lot more eloquent than you expected it’d be.

“Oh. Well, do you know what was wrong with him? I heard that he was gonna throw up.” You inquired nervously, looking towards the stairs.

“He probably did,” Pip mused, following your gaze and fixing his eyes on the stairs as well. “He was drinking like mad! It was rather impressive, really- I lost count after five shots.” Your head turned to him so fast that your neck cracked. Pip noted your wide-eyed expression and was quick to reassure you.

“Don’t worry, (Y/N)! We made sure he wasn’t drinking anything with sugar in it! Just vodka, I think, and a few lite beers. He shouldn’t be having hyper- uhh… that thing with the high sugar!” Pip attempted to comfort you, but his words just made you panic even more. Suddenly, you felt a lot more sober.

“Fuck!” You whispered, taking off towards the staircase, ignoring the Brit’s confused calls from behind you. Thankfully, you had been to Token’s place enough times to know the general location of the rooms, so you found the bathroom door quickly. Without wasting a second, you knocked on it.

“Scott?” You called, pressing your ear to the door. Utter silence. You repeated yourself, knocking a little harder, which earned you a groan from the other end.

“Scott!” You yelled, pounding on the door. “Open the door!”

All you got from that was unintelligible mumbling, but it was definitely Scott’s voice at the very least. You tried the handle, only to find that it was locked.

“Aw _shit!_ ” You hissed, looking around frantically for some solution to the potential medical emergency on the other side of the door. It was then that you realized that you still had a soda in your hand.

Bingo!

You set the can down carefully, making sure not to spill any of the now-precious liquid. Unfortunately, that was step two- you still needed to figure out how the hell you’d open the bathroom door in the first place and get to Scott before he went into a diabetic coma.

You tried the first thing that came to mind- you took a few steps back, mentally preparing yourself for the repercussions of your stupid idea, before running as fast as you could and slamming your shoulder into the door. It rattled the structure, but as expected, it didn’t bring it down. It _did_ hurt like a bitch though, sending you stumbling back and cursing, holding your shoulder.

That doesn’t mean that it was a useless endeavor, though- when you ran into the door, you noticed that the distance between the latch and the strike plate was more sizable than it should have been for a bathroom door in a mansion. Meaning, if you could just jam something between the two and _then_ run into it with enough force, the door should go flying open!

What the hell were you going to put there, though? You glanced around, looking desperately for something both thin enough to fit and strong enough to withstand a blow from you, when you spotted a toolbox sitting in the corner of the hall, right beneath a video camera. Perhaps some idiot maintenance crew member had left it there, but you really couldn’t find it within yourself to give a shit at the moment- whatever was in the box was fair game for rescuing Scott. You scurried over to it and unlatched it, digging through the mess of tools for just the instrument you had in mind- a screwdriver. You found one almost instantly, and you were quick to rush back to the door, though not before flashing the camera a peace sign and an awkward smile in hopes that it made your theft look less like a crime.

You took the screwdriver and jammed it as hard as you could between the latch and the strike plate, wiggling it around until it was situated snugly inside, allowing it to both separate the two and stay upright on its own. Once again, you took a few steps back before charging the door with your shoulder, using your other hand to shove the screwdriver further in simultaneously.

With a loud slam, the door burst open, and in you stumbled, almost tripping over someone’s prone body. Once you regained your balance (and finished sucking your teeth from the pain of your shoulder), you were quick to realize that said prone body was none other than Scott Malkinson.

“Scott!” You cried, kneeling down and pulling his torso off the floor. You cradled his head to your chest, smacking his cheek, but his eyes remained closed. “Are you conscious? Come on, look at me!”

You were just about to give up and call 911 when he groaned loudly.

“Wha...?” He slurred, looking up at you blearily. “(Y/N)?”

“Thank fucking God,” you mumbled, jostling him a little bit to keep him awake. “Where’s your phone?”

“I- I…” He trailed off, eyes fluttering. You shook him a little harder.

“Scott, don’t close your fucking eyes! Stay awake, do you hear me?” You demanded, using your free hand to roam his body, patting his pockets. You found his phone in his back pocket and quickly unlocked it- the password was your middle name- and opened the app that was connected to his CGM.

Yep, he had gotten a continuous glucose monitoring device for his diabetes, justifying the decision by citing a time in which he was hanging out with the new kid in elementary school and apparently almost died because he ran out of insulin shots. It was an excellent choice- he hadn’t had a crisis since!

Well, until now, that is.

The app finally loaded, and your eyes shot to the circle in the middle of the screen.

54 mg/dL.

You could’ve screamed.

“ _Scott fucking Malkinson!_ ” You did scream, right in his ear. He nearly jumped out of his skin, and he looked at you with eyes much more focused than they had been a few seconds ago. He was greeted by a fierce glare as you propped him up against the wall.

“Don’t move a muscle, and _don’t_ pass out!” You commanded, despite the fact that it probably wasn’t possible for him to control his level of consciousness. That thought just made you angrier- no fucking wonder he was conking out, his blood sugar was disgustingly low!

Either way, he nodded, and you dashed back into the hallway to grab your soda and return. His eyes were still open when you came back and knelt down by his side.

“Can you swallow?” You inquired. He nodded, and though you probably should have doubted his judgement, you still held the can up to his lips. You tilted it just enough for him to get a mouthful of pop, taking it away from his mouth and waiting for him to swallow before giving him another mouthful. You continued the process until the can was half empty, and by that time he was looking a lot less spaced out.

“Wait, I want more,” he protested as you set the can down outside of his reach.

“No. You only need half. Now we have to wait twenty minutes. If you drink more, your blood sugar is going to skyrocket.” You looked at him sternly.

He harrumphed, looking away and pouting childishly. Yeah, now you could tell that he was thoroughly drunk. And since he was fully conscious, you could finally give him what he deserved.

“You’re a fucking moron!” You exclaimed, causing him to look towards you with a befuddled expression.

“When I told you to watch your sugar, I didn’t just mean your sugar intake, I meant your fucking blood sugar! You have a CGM for a reason, your phone should have gone off!” You lectured.

“It did.” He admitted. “But then it wouldn’t stop beeping, so I turned off the notificay… note... notifier thingies.”

Your mouth fell open, shocked at the level of utter stupidity that this boy exhibited.

“It wouldn’t stop _beeping_ ,” you seethed, “because your blood sugar was so low that you were about to send yourself into diabetic shock! Do you realize how low you got?! Your blood sugar was so low that you were on the verge of needing to go to the hospital!”

He put a hand on your arm, giving you a lopsided smile. “Hey, don’t worry,” he interrupted himself with a hiccup, “about it (Y/N)! I’m fine!”

Your hands shot to his shoulders, gripping them tightly. “No, you’re not!” You exclaimed, your gaze intense. “You’re still drunk, and you don’t- you just don’t get it! You could’ve given yourself a seizure! You could have passed out and hit something and cracked your head open! _You could have died!_ Don’t you realize that?” You finished, voice petering out as your anger gave way to pure emotional turmoil. The endless amount of terrifying possibilities was wearing down your composure, and soon enough, you started tearing up.

This may have been the one thing that actually registered with Scott’s inebriated brain, because instead of blowing you off, he gave you a concerned look.

“Hey, don’t cry.” He muttered weakly, raising a hand to wipe off your tears. What he ended up doing was almost poking you in the eye, at which point he gave up and wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

You sniffled. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“But you still saved me.” He pointed out with a dopey grin. It was now that you noticed that he was lisping a lot worse thanks to the booze. “That makes… you my insulin angel!”

“Scott, the whole fucking problem was that you had too much insulin and not enough sugar.” You gave him the most flat look you could muster while fighting off the rest of your tears.

“Then you’re my sugar angel!” He amended. “And I think my sugar angel deserves a big kiss!”

The drunk dumbass dove in to steal a kiss only to bonk his nose on your lips, just barely catching your chin with his mouth.

You rolled your eyes, opening his phone again and checking his blood sugar now that it had been a little while. The screen read 90 mg/dL, and you were finally able to stop crying now that the literal threat of death had passed.

“Try again later, moron.” You sighed, making eye contact with the boy who was trying to puzzle out how your lips had moved up when he was trying to kiss you. “I might just let you have one.”

That put a smile on his face.

“ _After_ I punch you in the balls.”

Scott was still smiling.

He wouldn’t be later. You weren’t kidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Scott isn't particularly popular, but I kinda want to write a one-shot for every possible character at some point.
> 
> In case it isn't clear, Scott's binge drinking caused him to have hypoglycemia, or blood sugar that was too low, and he hit a particularly dangerous level that might've (and honestly should've) put him in the hospital.


	15. Dawn: Kenny McCormick/Reader (Platonic)

You were trying your hardest to keep your eyes open when your brother’s friend chimed in.

“Why the fuck are you carrying the brat?” Cartman inquired, looking at your perch on Kenny’s back with a judgmental eye. You didn’t even have the energy to come up with an insult, dropping your head and pressing your face into the back of Kenny’s hood.

“What, I can’t give my sibling a piggyback ride?” Your brother shot back, hiking you further up in the process.

“Your _sibling_ is a teenager, not four. Come on, bitch, get up!” Cartman scoffed, and judging by the noise of footsteps trampling the snow, he was coming closer. Whether that was to make fun of you at point-blank range or physically yank you down himself, you had no idea, but nonetheless you turned your head to look at the approaching boy. Kenny was just about to let him have it, but Cartman, meeting your eyes, stopped in his tracks.

“Jesus Christ, you look like shit.” He laughed. "What, long night of selling yourself on the street corner to put some food on the table?"

Kyle beat Kenny to the punch. "(Y/N)'s not your mom, Cartman."

Cartman visibly stiffened, then turned and stormed back over to Kyle, starting to yell at the ginger. You turned your head slowly to look at Kyle and he made eye contact with you. You nodded your thanks for the distraction and he blinked back.

Soon enough Kenny was putting you down and you were stumbling onto the bus, plopping down in the first empty seat and immediately leaning against your brother once he joined you. He shrugged the shoulder you were on, making you look up at him.

"You sure you wanna go today? You don't have to. I could find someone to drive you home after we got to school." He offered. You didn't emote.

"No, you couldn't." You mumbled matter-of-factly, settling back against his shoulder. "Don't worry about it."

"You're more tired than you've ever been after one of the usuals." He pointed out. You didn't respond.

He rolled his eyes at your stubbornness, letting you space out on his shoulder, but not sleep- no, you couldn't sleep now. If you fell asleep now, you wouldn’t be able to get back up for at least an hour. That’d be an hour more than you slept last night...

Kenny practically had to drag you off the bus, but by the time you split up to go to your lockers, you had more or less gained control of your motor skills. Thus began the zombie shuffle that you’d struggle through the day with.

By lunch, you could barely manage _that_. Your vision was shaky, close to splitting in two, and you didn't even feel like you were there. No, you were floating, perhaps a third of an inch above the floor, and your steps hit the air as softly as-

Oh, wow, the floor was rushing up to meet you. Better say hi.

Wait, no? That was a hand around your arm. Kinda hurt to be honest, seeing as your entire weight was being suspended by your forearm now. The hand moved to better help you regain your balance, and another hand helped settle you against the wall behind you.

"Gee, (Y/N)! Not to be rude or nothin', but you look like the dead!" The kind hands spoke, accompanied by a blue sweater and a smile. You tried to meet their eyes, but with your balance pitched to the side, it was hard to keep your gaze on anything.

"Do I need to go get Kenny?" Shit. That helped you to focus. The eyes were blue. A fringe of yellow hair sat above them. _Butters_.

“No, I’m fine.” You replied, pushing away from the wall and standing. The hands hovered over you, fretting over your swaying form.

“You sure don’t look fine.” He shot back. Your eyes lost interest in his and fell down to his sweater. It looked really warm. A lot warmer than your t-shirt and ripped jeans, anyway. Why did looking at it make you feel so much colder?

You could tell that Butters was staring at you. One of the hands fell, clasping your shoulder.

“Let’s get you to the lunchroom, huh?” He smiled again, not without a note of worry. You nodded absently, letting him lead you the rest of the way to the cafeteria. He did a pretty good job of helping you keep your balance, but that didn’t stop the occasional trip.

Once you reached the lunchroom, Butters steered you right over to your brother’s table, letting go of you to allow you to sit next to him. Kenny looked at you, puzzled and concerned, before he was yanked up by his hood and pulled away from the table. You set your arms on the table and slumped your head onto them, just barely registering the conversation that the two boys were having.

“Kenny, I really don’t think (Y/N) should be here.”

“I don’t either. They refused to go home.”

“Why did you even wake them up for school today?”

Funny question. He hadn’t, because he didn’t need to. You were already awake.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Ah, classic deflection.

“... Well, whatever, you need to take them home.”

“The brat won’t listen to me.”

“The 'brat' is your little sibling! Make them!”

“They're only two years younger than me, man! I can’t ‘make’ them do anything.”

The scant attention that you were paying to the conversation was stolen by a finger tapping your shoulder. You just barely raised your head from your arms to see that Kyle had taken Kenny’s spot.

“Hey. I ate most of my lunch before you showed up, but you look like you could use the sugar, so…” He trailed off, holding the contents of his hand out to you. You peered down at them. It was a granola bar.

It took you a second to come up with a response. “Thanks, Kyle.” You said, so quietly that it might as well have been a whisper. You raised a hand to take the granola bar and slip it into your jean pocket. You would give it to Karen later.

Kyle frowned a little, but said nothing, moving back to his spot. You returned to your previous position and tried to tune back in to Kenny and Butters’ conversation. Nothing. Huh, that’s kinda weir-

Your train of thought was interrupted by a hand settling against your back out of nowhere. Mentally, you jumped. Physically, you had absolutely no reaction.

“Jesus.” Kenny sighed. “Hey, look, we’re going home.”

“I have shit to do.” You mumbled, but he wasn’t having it. A hand slid past the barrier of your arms and under your chin, pulling it to the side to look at him. He looked pretty serious.

“No. We’re going home. That wasn’t a question.” He asserted.

“How are we gonna do that, genius?” You blinked up at him tiredly.

He hesitated. Apparently, he hadn’t planned that far. No surprise there. Once again, however, Butters came to the rescue, fishing around in his pocket.

“Take my car.” He suggested, holding out a ring of keys to Kenny. Your brother was just about to take them when, much to everyone’s surprise, you stood up from the table, pushing Butters’ hand away.

“If you leave your car at our house, it’ll get keyed or stolen.” You told him. “Thanks for the offer, Butters, but it’s a terrible idea.”

He looked torn. “(Y/N), you aren’t in a real good state to walk home. But if my car gets vandalized, I’ll get grounded…”

You pushed his keys further towards him. “We don’t need your car, because we’re not going home.” You replied, shooting a sharp look towards Kenny.

Your brother walked forward casually, throwing an arm around your shoulder. He said nothing, but continued walking forward, dragging you with him. You tried to squirm out of his grip, but his arm tightened around you like a vice, pressing you into Kenny’s side and preventing you from escaping.

“Let go of me!” You demanded, wriggling in his hold, but he just smiled sarcastically down at you, walking you out of the cafeteria, through the halls, out one of the school’s unsupervised back doors, and down the street. There was no way out of this, was there?

“Dude, seriously?” You sighed, resigning to your fate and leaning into your brother. He eased his grip a little bit in response.

“You were literally about to pass out on the table.” He snorted, turning a corner.

“No, I wasn’t.” You shot back defensively. All you got was a “yeah, sure,” back.

“You didn’t have to yank me out of the fuckin’ lunchroom in front of everyone like that.” You told him irritatedly.

“Aw, and let my wittle sib suffer?” He cooed, raising his other hand to screw up your hair. You shoved off of him, finally putting some space between the two of you as he had more or less let go of you at that point.

“Suck a dick.” You scowled. He gave you a shit-eating grin. Neither of you said anything more as the two of you continued your walk home, arriving in about ten minutes. That was partially because you were annoyed with him and partially because your exhaustion was really starting to get to you. By the time you got through the doorway, you were almost at the point of collapse.

You kicked your shoes off, tripping into the wall as you did so.

“So who’s gonna get our shit out of our lockers?” You inquired, shuffling over to the couch and flopping down on it listlessly. It hurt. You scrunched your face up as you reached beneath your butt to find an empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

“God damn you,” you snarled, whipping it at the wall, which it struck with a satisfying clunk.

Kenny raised an eyebrow in amusement before he answered you. “I’ll get it later.”

“But you have to pick up Karen later.” You reminded him.

“No, _you_ have to pick Karen up later.” He corrected. “And you won’t be able to do that unless you get some sleep, so go to bed. You don’t want to sleep on that piece of shit.”

You would’ve protested, but since Karen was involved, you pretty much didn’t have a choice. Standing from the aforementioned piece of shit, you made your way to the room you shared with Kenny, not without bumping his shoulder with your own.

You sagged onto your bed, not bothering with the threadbare blanket as you laid down. You were drifting off in minutes.

In your half-conscious state, you barely realized that Kenny had walked in after you until he was snatching his blanket from his bed and tossing it over you.

“Stop babying me.” You grumbled, snuggling into the dirty fabric nonetheless. Kenny chuckled.

“Never.” He replied, leaving the room. You fell asleep before you could tell him to go fuck himself.

A few hours later, you woke up to the sun shining on your face through the ripped curtains. Rubbing your eyes, you tossed your brother’s blanket off and stood up, walking to the living room. You peered around- no one was home. Kenny was probably picking your stuff up from school, which meant that it must be a little late. Because there was no other way to tell the time, you switched the TV on and flipped the channel to the news, looking at the clock in the lower right corner.

 _3:23_ , it read.

You cursed, running over to your shoes and throwing them on before dashing out of the house and down the street. Karen got out of class almost half an hour ago, and you’d be damned if you left her there any longer.

The rest of the afternoon passed more or less as it always did: you and Karen got home, you helped her with her homework, you and Kenny scrounged around the kitchen for something to feed her (you’d worry about feeding yourselves later, or tomorrow), your parents returned home, and Karen got ready for bed while Kenny holed himself up in his room and you hung around the hallway, nervously reading the atmosphere between your mom and dad. They seemed pretty docile, they hopefully wouldn’t start fighting again tonight.

You were kicking yourself for thinking that two hours later. It wasn’t long until your parents started drinking, then arguing, then getting physical, which was your cue to grab Karen from her room and plant her in your bed. Your mom and dad were pretty unpredictable people, and after a few… scares, you had gotten into the habit of bringing her into the room you and your brother shared and making sure your parents couldn’t get in.

Unfortunately, part of making sure your parents couldn’t get in was sitting with your back against the door, barricading it with your body. It’s not like the door didn’t lock, but your dad could probably bust that with a good enough kick, and you didn’t want to take chances.

Your brother joined you on the floor, the pair of you watching Karen as she finished up that granola bar from earlier. She got out of bed to hug Kenny, and then you, saying goodnight before crawling back into your bed and burying herself in the combined warmth of your, his, and her blankets. Neither of you were planning on sleeping anyway, so it only made sense to make sure your little sister was warm enough.

Soon after she fell asleep, your mother started pounding on your bedroom door, screaming about what ungrateful little shits you were and demanding that you open this door right now. You heaved a long sigh, dropping your head onto Kenny’s shoulder. Both of you kept your eyes on Karen, tuning your mom out in favor of listening to the soft pattern of her breathing that made this all worth it.

“I’m tired.” You whispered. You were wide awake.

He settled an arm across your shoulders, lifting his hand to play with your hair.

“I know what you mean.” He replied.

You met the dawn with eyes wide open, bags blacker than ever. You glued a smile on for Karen, but once she was safely at her bus stop, your face melted back into exhausted apathy. You didn’t even ask Kenny for a piggyback ride today- he would’ve collapsed.

You and your brother lumbered to your own stop. The other three boys eyed your drained figures quizzically, but you didn’t care.

You wrapped an arm around Kenny’s waist to keep him upright. Well, that was your excuse, anyway.

He grinned weakly down at you, pulling you in for a hug. Any other day, you would have fought it and demanded that he stop treating you like a child.

Today was not any other day. Instead, you slouched against him and let him hold you.

There you stood, and there you stayed, two McCormicks tethering each other to reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't planning on writing this very soon, but someone on Quotev suggested a little sister fic with Kenny after I already thought of it, and I found it enough of a coincidence to justify writing it.
> 
> I've been exhausted.


	16. Ball: Pip Pirrup/Reader

“Alright, kids, I want a good, clean game. No shots above the neck, you hear?” The gym teacher shot a pointed look at the rowdiest kids, which they ignored. Blowing his whistle, the teacher sent the students scurrying towards the opposite ends of the gym while he stepped towards the bag of rubber balls, opening it and placing them along the centerline of the gym. Once they were all set up, he stepped back to the sidelines before blowing his whistle once more to signal the start of the game.

All hell broke loose. The most athletic of students dashed forward, kicking and yanking balls back to their side of the gym in a race to stockpile their ammunition. Once there were no balls left in the middle of the gym, the rest of the students stepped forward to grab a ball on their side, eyes flitting from opponent to opponent to figure out who they’d eliminate first. Of course, there were some nerds and kids who thought they were too cool to participate hanging out in the back, but they’d get nailed with a ball soon enough. Everyone else who played was getting their head in the game, finding who they hated most on the other side and mentally putting a bounty on them- most of the people who were participating were doing so because they had a score to settle, preferably with a flying object to the torso.

That is, of course, except Philip Pirrup. He was standing nervously right in the middle of his side, fiddling with his hands. He had no particular grudge against anyone on the other side, so he didn’t want to be so rude as to prevent them from playing this ever-so-fun game. Oh, but he bore no ill will against anyone on _his_ side either, and not playing would be doing them a great disservice, which wasn’t fair to them. Goodness, why was this game so-

“ _Hey, Frenchy!_ ” called a rude voice from in front of him, startling him into looking up. He just barely caught a ball thrown at him by said voice, who (quite unsurprisingly) turned out to be Cartman.

“Throw a damn ball, would ya? You used to be good at this shit!” The heavier of the two demanded, whipping a ball of his own at Kyle, who was conveniently placed on the other team. The limber ginger dodged it, cussing Cartman to high hell.

“Well, yes, but I believe it would be so terribly rude to knock anyone out of the game- after all, you all recently stopped beating me up!” Pip smiled nervously.

Cartman scoffed. “And we can change that if you don’t _get in the fucking game._ What, did the French pussy-ness finally kick in for you? You know, Kyle said that French bitches like you don’t shave their pits, is that true?” He taunted. Pip tried to endure it, but after a couple more seconds of similar taunts, he couldn’t take it anymore. With a cry of anger, he whipped the ball right at Kyle, hitting him hard in the knee and knocking him to the floor.

“You’re out, Kyle!” Cartman yelled gleefully.

“Fuck you, you fat piece of shit!” Kyle cursed, getting up and hobbling over to the side of the gym.

“I’m sorry!” Pip yelled to him, only earning a dirty look from Kyle as he sat down. He felt dreadfully guilty, but not for long, as Cartman was quick to start up again with the bullshit rhetoric.

“I heard Craig talking about how you jack off to pictures of the Eiffel Tower!”

“You know, in the Hundred Years’ War, France kicked England’s _ass_! Red thought you’d be pretty happy to know that, being French and all!”

“Token was asking me why you didn’t bring frog legs and croissants for lunch the other day!”

One by one, Pip picked off his classmates, utterly enraged by the words that they had spoken of him. By the time that Cartman got hit and thus eliminated, Pip didn’t even need him to spit hatred in his ears- he was sufficiently pissed off to the point where he was hurling balls at other students of his own free will.

“You said my clothes were stupid.” Chest.

“You called me fart boy.” Arm.

“ _You_ gave me a swirly after urinating in the toilet!” _Balls_.

As Pip went down the list of potential targets, he didn’t even notice his teammates being sniped in a similar manner- not nearly as viciously as he was doing it, but with just as much deadly precision. Pip paid no attention as his classmates were struck down, congregating on the sidelines and trying to pinpoint who it was on the other side with such a wicked throw. All he focused on was the fury coursing through his veins, burning his insides, and how the only time it was quenched was the brief moment in which his victims were struck with the ball and keeled over in pain and defeat. He wanted all of them to feel the same humiliation and agony that he had felt all those years as they-

His rampage ended with a blink. A blink that was meant to clear his vision, because surely, he couldn’t have gotten everyone on the other team out already! A quick sweep of the other side of the gym told him that he was, in fact, incorrect, and that the entirety of the opposing team had been eradicated.

It wasn’t until he heard clapping that he realized that he wasn’t alone.

You pushed off the wall, having situated yourself there after picking off the rest of Pip’s teammates, waiting for the very moment that he destroyed your teammates and snapped out of his anger. Ever so slowly, you made your way forward, putting your hands together in a slow clap for the show that he had put on for you. Not even your teammates had known you were there- as you walked forward, more than one jaw dropped. A few people asked who the hell you were, others couldn’t believe that you were the one who had annihilated the other team, but one thing was constant among the group: they were all waiting restlessly for your next move.

Pip’s eyes snapped over to you as you meandered out of the shadows, a rubber ball under your arm to allow you to continue your golf clap. Once he could fully see you, he couldn’t help but gawk.

“Philip. _Pirrup._ ” You started slowly, popping the _p_ ’s.

“I’ve got to say,” you continued in your dulcet tone, “I never would have imagined that such a kind, well-mannered young man such as yourself would act so barbaric, especially not over such a thing as dodgeball.”

He swallowed. That’s right- you had moved here in middle school, so you hadn’t witnessed his extraordinarily violent displays in elementary school when he played for the school team. And now, all the effort he had put into your perception of him as an upstanding gentleman had just been wasted by his fickle emotions. Desperately, he scrambled for a reason to whip the ball in his hands at you, picking his brain for any transgressions you had committed against him that he could use to end this mortifying scene.

Nothing. He could come up with nothing. You were the only person who had never picked on him (outside of the occasional good-natured ribbing), and he simply couldn’t muster up any rage to channel his dodgeball skills with. He stood there, tongue-tied and shell-shocked, giving you the perfect opportunity to prowl towards him.

“I… I…” Pip attempted uselessly, unable to get anything more out.

“Oh, no need to explain yourself, Philip.” You cut in. “It’s perfectly understandable. Impressive, really. Perhaps unexpected, but not bad.”

“It’s… It’s not bad? You’re not upset?” He inquired, thoroughly bumfuzzled.

“No!” You chuckled. Somehow, even _that_ sounded sultry. “What can I say? I like a guy who can play rough when the situation calls for it.”

Pip felt as if he’d swallowed his tongue, but you merely took that as another chance to speak.

“You know, Pip, you could say I’ve got… _Great Expectations_ for you.”

Sexy _and_ clever? You’d be the death of him. Somehow, he dug his tongue out of the back of his throat, perhaps emboldened by the familiar subject material- Lord knows that attractive people were _not_ part of that.

“I wouldn’t imagine,” he started nervously, “that you had your own Drummle?” 

You smiled cheekily at him. 

“Would it matter? You know how it ends- only you could keep me _satis_ fied.” 

You stalked ever closer to him, invading his personal space. He definitely noticed, but hardly cared. 

“How… How will I know you don’t mean to break my heart?” He questioned, and you tutted. You raised a hand to your ear and pulled something off the helix- a black ear cuff- before leaning in right next to Pip’s face. He scarcely dared to breathe as you fixed it to his own ear. 

“Take it as my word,” you whispered into his ear before leaning even further into him and catching the shell of his ear with your teeth. He could have sworn to God that he was having a heart attack. That, or he was already dead, and the prettiest angel in Heaven- no. No, you were no angel at all, you were far too predatory, too dominant. If he was dead, the sexiest demon in Hell was torturing him, and he didn’t care a whit. He’d let you do it for eternity. Oh good Lord, the feeling of your teeth on his ear sealed his fate, he’d never want to feel anything else ever again. Please, do it again, he’d beg you- 

He only snapped out of his reverie when he felt something hit his chest, eyes whipping to you to see that you had tapped his sternum with the ball that was previously under your arm, eliminating him and thus ending the game. 

“Until later, _Pip._ ” You grinned mischievously, stepping back from him and dropping the ball. He and everyone else in the gym watched in stunned silence as you sauntered away, leaving the gym, presumably to return to the locker room. 

The only noise in the minutes afterward was the rubber slap of the ball against the floor. Well, until Pip spoke up, that is. 

“Until then, my Estella…” He whispered, reaching a hand up to finger the ear cuff you had fitted him with. 

He could still feel the fog on it from your breath. Absently, he swept it off the metal cuff with his thumb and pressed it to his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was really fun to write, not gonna lie.
> 
> Since there's no clear answer as to whether Pip's last name is "Pirr **i** p" or "Pirr **u** p," I went with "Pirr **u** p" because the actual novel _Great Expectations_ spells it the other way and having both characters use the exact same name is a little too obvious for me.


	17. Band-Aid: Damien Thorn/Reader

“God damn it, Damien.” You sighed. He raised an eyebrow at you.

“He already did, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He retorted, making you snort.

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and get in here, smartass.” You shook your head, dragging him into your house and shutting the door.

You tried to continue dragging him through your house, but he winced, lifting a hand and clutching his forehead.

“(Y/N)...” He mumbled, gesturing weakly to the arch leading to your living room.

“Oh, shit, right!” You snapped your fingers, running to the kitchen to grab a chair while Damien stood by the doorway, twitching in pain. You dragged it over to the arch and stood on it, reaching for the crucifix that hung there. You flipped it upside down before jumping down from the wobbly chair, looking over to your demonic friend to see that he looked considerably more comfortable.

“Why don’t you just take that damn thing down?” He looked at the cross with disdain. You shrugged, moving the chair back to the kitchen table.

“It’s not mine to take down, man. Pretty sure my mom would have a heart attack if one of her precious crucifixes went missing.” You explained.

“And she wouldn’t if she found out that you were hanging out with the son of the Devil?” He raised a brow at you.

“Why do you think she doesn’t know you’re Satan’s kid? I told her you were one of the goth kids.” You laughed.

“... It’s a close enough match that I’m not going to bother being offended by it.” He said.

You didn’t respond, opting instead to head to the downstairs bathroom to grab the first aid kit. You returned to the living room to find Damien making himself at home on your couch.

“If you get blood on my couch, I’m going to put a rosary around your neck.” You threatened, to which he scoffed.

“Sure you would.” He retorted. You shot him a flat look and raised your hands, putting your index fingers together to make the sign of the cross.

“The power of Christ compels you!” You recited, making Damien hiss in pain.

“Come on, you know that hurts!” He spat. You put your fingers down and opened the first aid kit, kneeling in front of him.

“Still doubt me?” You asked cheekily. He glared down at you, not even needing to speak to express his utter contempt for you, but held his bloody arm out anyway.

You ripped open a package of alcohol wipes and started scrubbing off the blood, both fresh and dry.

“So, what was it this time?” You prodded casually.

“Hell hounds.” He sighed, taking the pain like a champ when you rubbed the wipe over the wound itself. He barely emoted as you scraped the dried blood from the bite marks.

“How’d that happen?” You pressed.

“Fucking Steve Irwin.” He grimaced.

“Again?” You grinned.

“Yes, _again!_ ” Damien bitched. “He let some out of their cages so that he could ‘observe them in their natural habitat,’ which of course led to them running rampant in the second circle of Hell and chewing the shit out of a bunch of damned souls and demons.”

“So why were you the one to stop them? Didn’t your dad do anything about it?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

“No!” He exclaimed. “He was too busy getting his cock sucked on his throne by his newest boy toy to deal with it. He told me to go do it.”

You paused in your scrubbing. “... You watched your dad getting a BJ?”

“It’s not an uncommon sight in Hell.” Damien waved off your slightly horrified expression.

“But dude… That’s your dad.” You replied, reaching over to the first aid kit and grabbing a roll of bandages.

“And?” He shot back. You just shook your head, muttering about hellspawn and their lack of standards.

You wrapped his arm up with the gauze, securing it with a strip of first aid tape. He lifted his arm out of your grasp, moving it a little to test it out.

“Feel better?” You inquired.

“Nominally.” He nodded, clenching and unclenching his fist. “I don’t know why you insist on repairing my body when I injure it. It’s merely a host, I could’ve gone back to Hell and fixed it instantly.” He added as an afterthought.

You gave him an incredulous look. “Then why do you show up here, injured, and make me waste my medical supplies? Thanks to you, I have to restock this motherfucker every two weeks.” You patted the first aid kit.

“Because you told me I could?” He looked at you quizzically.

“Then shut the fuck up and don’t complain about it.” You spoke simply, smiling at him sarcastically.

His mouth hung open a little, surprised at the blunt response, but he snapped out of it quickly. Just as he should- it was _you_ after all, what did he expect?

You put the last of the bandages back in the kit and were just about to shut it before you realized something.

“Hey, you got any more injuries?” You queried, moving closer to Damien to inspect him. He swatted you away.

“Just a couple scrapes.” He muttered. You furrowed your eyebrows- that wasn’t normal Damien behavior. He could never be bothered to keep his voice down, unless…

You leaned in closer to his face, quickly raising your hands to his messy bangs and pushing them out of his face. Yep, there it was- a trail of blood dripped down from his right temple, soaking into a lock of black hair that was plastered there by a mixture of blood and sweat.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, moving back to the kit to grab another alcohol wipe and a band-aid. You made quick work of cleaning it, with him complaining and insisting it wasn’t a big deal all the while, but it wasn’t until you opened the packaging for the band-aid that he really started to resist you.

“You’re not putting that on my face.” He asserted.

“Yes, I am. You’re bleeding.” You replied, holding the band-aid up menacingly.

“So? You cleaned it up. That’s good enough.” He stated stubbornly.

“No, it’s not. I bandage every wound you have, and this one’s no exception. Now let me put it on you.” You demanded.

“No!” He exclaimed, glaring intensely at the band-aid in your hand. Once you saw his eyes start to turn red, you knew exactly what he was about to do, and were quick to stuff the band-aid somewhere he couldn’t see. Unfortunately, that threw off his aim, and all of a sudden your empty hand was on fire.

“Fuck!” You cried, shaking it vigorously. Damien’s eyes widened in panic as you, luckily keeping your wits about you, ran to the sink and put it out with the tap.

“Damien, what the _hell?_ ” You yelled, running your hand under cold water. He got up and ran over to you, waiting for you to remove your hand from the water before gently taking your wrist and examining your burnt flesh.

“Mild second degree burn.” He diagnosed, putting his other hand on your shoulder and steering you over to the couch. Soon enough, it was you getting taken care of, gritting your teeth as he rubbed antibiotic cream over the blistering skin.

“What was that for, man?” You ground out, blinking back tears of pain. He met your teary eyes and sighed.

“It was an accident. I’m… sorry.” He replied, struggling a little with the apology. Being from Hell, he wasn’t used to apologizing, but he had admitted to you once that it wasn’t nearly as hard to do it with you.

You nodded, wordlessly accepting his apology.

“... Will you let me put the damn band-aid on you now?” You tried, smiling a little bit. Judging by the defeated look on his face, there was no way he could say no to you.

“Fine.” He acquiesced begrudgingly, finishing with your hand just to feel the fresh bandages running gingerly through his hair. You smoothed back his bangs before peeling off one of the plastic bits of the band-aid, sticking it near his hairline. You pulled the other one off, sealing it over the bloody hole.

“Was that so bad?” You grinned. He just looked at you resentfully.

“I’m the _Prince of Hell_ , and I have a Hello Kitty band-aid on my fucking face.” He said, almost in disbelief. You couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he said it.

“Yep.” You replied, highly amused.

Your amusement didn’t stay for long, as your banter with Damien was cut off by a sudden noise. It was a low crackle, deep and gurgling, slowly getting louder. You recognized it almost instantly but you couldn’t believe your ears, looking down at Damien to see if you were correct. The grim expression on his face told you that you were.

It was the horrible noise of a human death rattle. Someone was opening a portal from Hell in your house.

Suddenly, Damien snatched the wrist of your uninjured hand and pulled you off the couch, charging up the stairs with you in tow. He found your mother’s room quickly and entered with reckless abandon, slamming the door shut and ignoring the crucifix and other religious imagery that littered the room. You could still see his shoulders quake in pain from the holy forces that weighed down on him.

“Where’s her holy water?” He commanded, looking around.

“What?” You responded, barely able to keep up with everything that was happening.

“Your mother is a devout follower of _Jesus,_ ” he spat the name like it was poison. “She has to have holy water. Where is it?”

You broke from his grasp to move to her bedside table, rummaging around in it for a minute before producing a fairly large bottle of the stuff. Damien took it from your hands instantly.

“Damien, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You began nervously, reaching your hand out to take it back from him.

“If you’re covered in holy water, whoever’s coming in can’t touch you.” He said, keeping the bottle firmly in his hands and unscrewing the cap.

“And if you spill that, you’re gonna get hurt.” You replied, looking at him in concern. He ignored your expression, instead splashing a bit of holy water on you.

“Rub it in.” He told you, hitting you with another spray of it. You wiped it all over your face, your hands, your arms, your neck, every exposed part of you. Drops of it splattered all over your clothes, soaking through your t-shirt and pants.

He went to splash you with it once more, turning the bottle on its side to account for the fact that more than half of it was gone. There was a little more of it left than he realized, however, which spilled out of the neck of the bottle and dripped all over his hand.

He cried out in pain, dropping the bottle to the floor and moving to clutch his hand. Touching it only made the other hand hurt as well, so he shook his hand violently to get the burning substance off. You were quick to grab your mother’s bedspread, taking his hand and rubbing it dry with the cloth.

“Damien, I fucking told you!” You scolded, holding his hand (with the bedspread still covering your hand, of course- no need to burn the poor guy even more) and inspecting it to see the damage. His hand was red and smoking, but not blistering or bleeding.

“First degree burn.” You assessed, nodding to yourself.

He huffed out a laugh, trying to distract you from the tiny tears that collected in his eyes. It didn’t work.

“Guess we match now.” He noted absently.

You weren’t in the mood. “What the fuck is another hellspawn doing here anyway?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. They were probably already looking for me, and my magic gave me away when I burned your hand.”

“Who’s looking for you?” You looked at him worriedly.

“I don’t know,” he repeated, looking towards the door with an apprehensive frown. He shook his head, turning to gaze sternly into your eyes.

“Get that crucifix and find her rosary.” He instructed you, and your eyes widened.

“Fuck, man, I forgot-”

“That doesn’t matter right now.” He interrupted. “Get them.”

You were quick to snatch the crucifix off the wall, and a minute or two of rifling around in her bedside drawer again revealed the rosary. You stood in front of Damien, putting the rosary around your neck and tucking it inside your shirt while holding the crucifix upside down to keep it from hurting him.

You both stood in silence for a few seconds, listening to the now booming noise of the death rattle. You couldn’t help but cringe at the disgusting, throaty noise.

“They should be arriving any second now,” Damien told you, moving to the door and setting his uninjured hand on it. “When I open this door, I’m going to go downstairs, and I want you to hide near the staircase. It’s me they want, not you, but they’ll take any chance they can to hurt you. They’re from Hell, after all.”

“Dude, I am _not_ hiding while you go out there and have an incredibly dangerous fight with a demon or whatever!” You argued. He looked back at you, eyes half-lidded in annoyance.

“I didn’t say you’d be hiding the whole time.” He pointed out, causing you to perk up. “As soon as I get their back turned to you, I want you to run down the stairs and hold up the crucifix. I suggest you hit them with the rosary, too, and you can say some prayers or the same bullshit you said to me earlier, since you know it hurts.”

“Oh. Cool.” You grinned despite the deadly peril that his plan would put you in. “Guess I’d better do this then,” you added, pulling the rosary out of your shirt and using your hands to pull one end of it off the clasp in the middle. The metal gave way, leaving you with a long string of beads with a cross on the end. Damien looked at you quizzically.

“It makes a better weapon if I turn it into a whip.” You explained, and he nodded, smiling at your cleverness.

A deep growling noise resounded throughout the house. You and Damien looked at each other.

“Ready?” He asked, readying a flame in the palm of his hand.

“Almost.” You replied before leaning up and kissing his head, lips landing right over the pink band-aid.

“Alright, now I’m ready.” You smiled, and he looked at you with a mixture of incredulity and affection.

With a roll of his eyes, he opened the door, and the demon with a Hello Kitty band-aid on his temple left to protect you with his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a new series out on Quotev! It's called "I'm Not A Freakin' Bird", and it's a reader insert. Go check it out, if you want: https://www.quotev.com/story/12745380/Im-Not-a-Freakin-Bird-South-Park-TFBW-x-Reader.


	18. Change: Leopold "Butters" Stotch/Reader

“And… There.” Butters murmured to himself, swiping the mascara over his lashes one last time. He stepped back from the bathroom mirror to take in his transformation.

His wig hung just above his shoulders, neatly combed out into a long-ish bob. On his face was a light layer of foundation and powder, complimented by a modest application of natural-looking mascara and a light pink lip gloss. He wore a soft green sweater and a tight pair of jeans, not wanting to dress too much like his male self.

He wasn’t Butters anymore. Now, he was Marjorine.

He was quick to gather his things for school and rush out the door before his parents could see him, not wanting a repeat of the whole bi-curious fiasco. Who knows where they’d send him if they caught him cross-dressing?

As he trudged to the bus stop, he went over his plan in his head: He’d introduce himself as Marjorine, a cousin of Butters’, and say that he was planning on staying with his Aunt Linda and Uncle Stephen for a little while. Hopefully, no one would recognize the wig and name from when the other boys in school had him pose as a girl to infiltrate the girls’ sleepover and steal their fortune teller. Odds are, they wouldn’t- it had been years since then, and a lot of crazy stuff had happened in the interim to make them all forget about the comparatively tame situation.

He was stuck in his head all the way to his stop, only breaking out of his thoughts once he boarded the bus to see that almost everyone was staring at him. The bus driver paid him no mind, merely shutting the door and starting to drive, which threw Butters off balance. He stumbled into the aisle, looking for open seats and finding none in the first half of the bus. Walking to the back, he noticed that Kenny had an open spot next to him and was about to sit there when he paused- it would make more sense for him to sit next to a girl, since he technically didn’t know Kenny. With that in mind, he passed Kenny’s seat to find that another girl had a seat all to herself.

“Um, may I sit here?” He asked her in his best approximation of a girl’s voice. The girl in the seat looked up at him from her phone, eyeing him curiously.

“Sure.” She shrugged, watching him as he sat down. Noticing her stare, he rushed to explain himself.

“I’m new here.” He noted rather stupidly. The brunette to his right nodded slowly at him.

“Uh huh. What’s your name?” She asked.

“Oh, uh, Marjorine!” He smiled nervously at her, hoping to God that she didn’t recognize the name.

“I’m Lola.” She smiled back, and Butters felt himself relax a little bit. If one of the popular girls didn’t remember the name, he reckoned, no one would.

“It’s nice to meet you!” He replied. Lola looked back down at her phone for a second, rapidly typing something out, then looked back up at him.

“Hey, since you’re new here, do you want to meet some of my friends? We can show you around. I just texted them and they said they’re excited to meet you!” She offered. Butters couldn’t believe his luck- five minutes as a girl and he was already about to make friends!

“Of course!” He exclaimed, standing from his seat as the bus rolled to a stop in front of the high school. He and Lola walked off together, entering the school and immediately catching gazes. Many students who would have completely ignored Butters were staring openly at Marjorine, murmuring questions to each other as to who she was. He couldn’t fight the smile that crept onto his face at that.

Lola led him to a gaggle of people hanging out by a locker that he recognized as Wendy Testaburger’s.

“Alright, guys, here she is!” Lola announced, causing everyone who was congregated there to look at Butters. He fidgeted, not used to so much attention.

“Hi!” Wendy was the first to talk. “Welcome to South Park High! I’m Wendy, and this is Nelly, Nichole, Bebe, Red, Sophie, Annie, Esther, and Heidi! What’s your name?” She inquired after pointing each girl out to Butters. He didn’t pay that much attention to it, as he already knew who everyone there was.

“I’m Marjorine.” He greeted shyly, waving a hand towards all the girls. Bebe raised an eyebrow at him.

“Marjorine? Like margarine, the butter substitute?” She pressed, looking Marjorine up and down in an unimpressed manner.

“No,” a voice from outside the group chimed in, “Mar-jor- _een_ , like Marceline from Adventure Time.” The girls looked behind him, and he found himself turning to look at who had spoken.

“I think it’s a cool name.” You finished, crossing your arms over your chest and smiling at Butters. Wendy was quick to come to your side.

“Oh my God, how could I forget? You _have_ to meet (Y/N).” She gushed, holding her arms out to present the aforementioned person to Butters.

“(Y/N)?” Butters questioned. He’d never heard that name before, though he might've seen you around.

“Yeah, that’s me.” You smiled, fiddling a little with your flannel. “Cool to meet you, Marjorine.”

“I think it’s pretty cool to meet you too!” He replied with a dorky grin.

Nichole checked her phone. “Guys, it’s almost time to go to class.” She warned.

“Oh, right!” Wendy turned to Butters. “What’s your schedule? We can show you where your classes are!”

“Oh, uh, no need to do that. I got my schedule before I came, so I memorized it. And I know where to go because my cousin told me where everything is.” He cringed internally at his explanation, but Wendy seemed to buy it, shrugging.

“That’s really prudent of you.” She remarked. “What’s your first class?”

“I have English in room sixty-three.” He responded, his eyes flicking to you when you snapped your fingers.

“That’s the same class as me. Come with me, we can walk together.” You told him, and he nodded.

“I’d appreciate that!” He smiled, waving goodbye to the girls and joining your side as you walked in the opposite direction as them.

“So, who’s your cousin?” You tried to make conversation. Butters sucked in a breath- this was it, this would determine whether or not his plan would fall through.

“His name is Leopold, but we call him Butters.” He said, fiddling with his fingers. Your eyes lit up in realization and you looked over at him.

“Oh, Butters! Yeah, we call him that too. Cute guy.” You shrugged casually. Butters was poleaxed.

"Cute?" He asked, wondering if he had heard you right.

"Well, yeah. As far as I've heard, he's never said a mean word to anyone. Sweet kid, really. Besides, he's not a bad looker, either." You winked. He had to force the shocked look off his face.

"You know, Bebe was kinda right in a way." You said thoughtfully.

"How do you figure?" He retorted.

"Well, we call your cousin Butters, and if you stress the first syllable of your name, it _does_ kinda sound like margarine." You explained, and Butters could swear that his heart stopped. This is it, the gig is up.

"Oh?" He looked at you, mentally begging you not to figure it out.

"Yeah. That's too convenient to be a coincidence." Yep, you were about to destroy him, he was sure of it. He looked down at the floor.

"Are both your guys' parents fans of spreadable condiments, by any chance?" You joked, causing him to whip his head back up to look at you. You… hadn't figured it out? Was he really going to get through today without being found out?

"Well, if we get another cousin named Mayo, I'll get back to you on that." He joked back, voice hesitant. What he wasn't ready for was for you to bark out a laugh, cackling loudly.

"Wow, I was _not_ expecting that." You grinned at him, getting your laughter under control. "You aren't half bad, man."

"Y- You aren't either… man!" He returned nervously, earning another chuckle from you. Despite himself, he felt a smile creep onto his face.

He had finally made his first true friend.

Later that day, during lunch, it looked like he'd be in for even more than that. You had invited him to sit with you and the girls, which he happily accepted, but as soon as he sat down, a few guests popped up.

"Hey there, Marjorine." Clyde grinned at him. Butters had "met" Clyde in third period, and the brunette hadn't left him alone since. A couple other vultures flanked him, namely Kenny and, to his surprise, Token.

"Hiya, fellas." Butters muttered, eyes flicking between them anxiously. Briefly, he glanced over at you.

You looked over at Marjorine as she shifted in her seat. She clearly wasn't comfortable with all these guys ganging up on her, and something on your face told Butters that you'd be damned if you just left her like that.

"... Nope." You spoke simply, catching everyone's attention.

"What do you mean, 'nope'?" Clyde gave you a perplexed look.

"Just that, nope." You replied, surprising everyone by wrapping an arm around Marjorine's shoulder and pulling her close to you. "If you guys want to creep on Marjorine, you'll have to do it on your own time. She's mine for right now, and she's here to have a good time with her friends." The three boys just stared at you, making you roll your eyes.

"You heard me, scram." You insisted, watching as they slowly turned and walked away, disheartened. "And get to know her before you start trying to get in her pants, you shameless fucks!" You called after them.

Once they had gone back to their own tables, you took your arm off of Marjorine.

"Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Are you okay?" You met Butters' gaze with worried eyes.

He couldn't be bothered to answer your question, instead posing one of his own. "You're… You're all my friends?"

"Of course we are!" Red yelled from her side of the table, and the other girls echoed their own affirmatives.

"You're pretty cool, Marjorine!" Heidi added, to which everyone also agreed.

Butters could feel himself tear up. "Aw, guys… You're the best friends I've ever had!"

The table couldn't help but coo over Marjorine's adorable display of emotion. You turned to her, wrapping your arm around her again.

"Aw, Jori, you're gonna smear your mascara." You smiled sweetly. Butters wrapped his arms around you in response, burying his face into your shoulder.

If he was being honest, what he was most glad about was that you had your arm around him again.

Needless to say, he returned as Marjorine the next day, delighting in your excited expression upon seeing him. Hanging around you and all the girls gave him a sense of companionship that he had never felt before, making him feel as if he really belonged somewhere instead of feeling as if he was destined to flit from group to group and hang around until people got bored of him. He craved more of that feeling of friendship, wanting to further integrate himself into the group so that he could forge even closer bonds than just one day at school provided him with.

Unfortunately, he spent so much time trying to be Marjorine that he forgot to be Butters. He found this out the hard way after school on Friday, having spent the entire week dressed as Marjorine. His wig was tucked safely in his backpack and his makeup had been wiped off as he walked home. He wasn't wearing anything overly feminine today, which he counted himself lucky for once he stepped through his front door to see his mother and father sitting on the couch and glaring over at him.

"Butters," his father began sternly, "the school called us and told us that you've been playing hooky _all week_. What do you have to say for yourself, mister?"

Butters felt himself freeze. If he told his dad the truth, his cover would be completely blown- he'd tell the school that Butters was Marjorine, and everyone would find out about what a weirdo Butters Stotch was for dressing up like a girl because he was desperate for attention. If he didn't, though, his dad would get angry and ground him, but his identity as Marjorine would still be safe, and you and the girls (especially you) would still be his friends.

The choice was obvious.

"Yes, sir. I've been skipping class." Butters lied, digging his feet into the carpet. His father scowled at him, standing up.

"I knew it! You are _grounded_ , young man! No phone, no computer, no going out, for _two weeks!_ " He yelled at his son. Butters nodded meekly, but his mother tugged on her husband's sleeve.

"Stephen, most of his school assignments are online." She pointed out, and the angry man paused.

"... You can use your computer, but _only_ for schoolwork. If I catch you doing anything else on it, it's being taken away, do you understand me?" He added. Butters nodded once again, this time slightly more enthused.

"Now get up to your room!" He didn't have to be told twice, dashing up to his room and throwing his backpack on the ground. He thanked his lucky stars that you had given him your contact info today, logging onto Discord and typing in your username and identification code. When your name popped up, he sent you a friend request, which was accepted in minutes. You added him back, and soon you were typing out your first message to him.

 _"Isn't this Butters' account?"_ You asked, noticing his screen name, which was just "Butters". He scrambled to come up with an explanation.

 _"Yeah. I didn't have my own, so he said I could use his."_ He typed back, chewing the inside of his cheek.

 _"Cool."_ You replied, allowing him to relax.

The two of you kept up a correspondence all night, with Butters staying on the computer under the guise of schoolwork until he was forced to go to bed. Whenever his dad walked into the room, he alt-tabbed to an old essay that he had written last year, making minor edits to it until his dad left the room with a satisfied nod. You and Butters talked about anything that popped into your heads- your favorite colors, your favorite classes, and your favorite places all became the topic at some point or another. As could be expected, you also asked him a couple more personal questions that he had to… tweak the truth to come up with.

Where was she from? Hawaii.

What did her parents do? They were a pilot and flight attendant, respectively.

Why was she staying with her aunt and uncle? Her parents wanted to get back to work full time, which would have left her home alone all the time.

How did she get along with Butters? This one threw him for a loop. He had no idea how to respond to it, so he just decided to tell you the truth, albeit slightly edited to make it make sense.

_"He's okay. I mean, he's nice and all, but he's a total dork. Does he even have any friends?"_

_"Idk,"_ you replied, _"he kinda just wanders between cliques as far as I can tell. I don't think he has one definite friend group, but I'm sure a lot of people would consider him their friend. I haven't really talked to him myself, but if I did, I'd probably want to be friends with him too. He seems pretty okay, you shouldn't call him a dork. :P"_

Nothing could have convinced him that he wanted to be your best friend more than what you said in that moment.

Of course, to do that, he had to start showing up to school as Marjorine more often. But, to quell the school's suspicions (including those of his peers, who had started to spread rumors about his disappearance), he also had to go as Butters sometimes. Once next week rolled around, he found himself going to school without his makeup and wig, feeling oddly bare without it.

He walked through the halls, alone as always, only barely acknowledged by people who were certain that he must have died or something last week. It wasn't until he sat down in room sixty-three that someone actually spoke to his face.

"Hey, uh, Butters?" You greeted awkwardly, standing in front of his desk. He looked up at you, surprised that you'd even spoken to him.

"Well, hi there, (Y/N)! What can I do for ya?" He said, trying not to sound too eager to talk to you. _You don't know her,_ he reminded himself.

"I was just wondering where Marjorine is. She was here all last week." You told him. He decided to tell you the "truth."

"She got grounded." He reported.

"What? Why?" You looked upset, and he couldn't help the warm feeling he got from seeing that.

"My parents weren't happy that she went out of the house lookin' so unladylike." He fibbed, finding it a little easier to improv his explanations with you.

"Really? That's such bullshit, she's perfectly ladylike. Hell, she's beautiful." You scoffed. "How long is she grounded for?"

Butters struggled to ignore his racing heart. "Two weeks." He conveniently didn't mention that that included being grounded from the computer.

"That sucks, man." You sighed, looking off to the side for a moment before looking back at Butters, eyes lighting up. "Can you tell her that I can teach her how to be more ladylike? The girls taught me, seeing as, well," you gestured to your hoodie and jeans, "I'm not the biggest lady myself."

"Will do." He nodded, smiling at you. "I think she'll really appreciate that."

"Happy to help." You grinned, returning to your seat after nodding your goodbye.

He messaged you later that night as Marjorine, eagerly accepting your offer. You spent the entire night gushing over how pretty she'd look in a skirt, or how she really didn't need makeup, as pretty as she was, but you knew exactly what to teach her how to do to make her beauty pop.

Butters couldn't help but swoon at your words, and was impatient for the next two weeks to end so that your "lessons" could start.

After the torturous remainder of his grounding was up, more lies reared their heads. Bebe was having a pool party at her house and had invited both you and Marjorine, which (as you reasoned to Marjorine one day with your arm slung over her shoulder at lunch) was the perfect opportunity to have your first lesson. You probed her for areas she was lacking in, and when she finally admitted that she didn't know how to shave her legs, you merely smiled and reassured her that you could teach her how. So, that day, Butters went home and told his parents that he'd be spending the next Saturday hanging out with Dougie, which he did so often that his parents didn't bother questioning it. The next day in school, Marjorine politely requested that the lesson be held at your house, since she was too embarrassed to shave in the same house as her male cousin (who was now the one grounded for the next two weeks- this time for "breaking an expensive plate from his parents' honeymoon"). You happily agreed. All the while, Marjorine had been giving the office forged sick notes from "her uncle" to excuse Butters' absences. Since Butters was often grounded from school and his being sick was always Mr. Stotch's excuse, the ladies in the office accepted each note with a patient smile. Miraculously, everything was working in Butters' favor, and for once in his life, he operated without fear of punishment.

He showed up at your doorstep on Saturday with a razor, a bikini top, and a pair of baggy swim shorts in his hands. He had changed into Marjorine in the bathroom of a nearby gas station, forgoing his usual makeup since he was going to be in a pool in a few hours. He wore a blue tank top and a high-waisted pair of jeans shorts, loving how they looked on his petite figure.

When you opened the door for him, it was obvious that you loved how they looked too, as you weren't shy about pointing it out.

"Damn, girl, you're lookin' fine!" You exclaimed, ushering him in and chuckling at his blush and quiet thanks. You quickly led him upstairs and into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind you.

"Are you okay with me locking it?" You asked, having forgotten to ask him beforehand. "I just don't want anyone to walk in and see you if it'll make you uncomfortable."

"No, no, it's fine!" He reassured, setting his bathing clothes on the counter by the sink and picking up his razor.

"Cool." You said, grabbing a can of shaving cream from the cabinet under the sink and your own razor from a shelf inside the shower-tub combo.

All of a sudden, you unbuttoned your pants, sliding them down your legs and kicking them over to the corner. It took all of Butters' self control to keep himself from staring.

"This is okay, right?" He nodded embarrassedly in reply. You came over and sat on the edge of the tub, legs inside of it, before turning on the tap.

"I'll show you how to do it first." You told him, wetting your legs with the warm water before squirting some shaving cream into your hand and rubbing it generously onto your legs, all the way up to your underwear. You wet your razor in the water before dragging it in a precise line up your leg, looking over to Marjorine.

"See how I'm doing it?" How could he not? He nodded absently as you continued.

"Wet your leg, wet the razor, put some shaving cream on, and drag the razor up your leg with enough pressure to get the cream off, but not enough to cut yourself." You went on, demonstrating all the while. Butters watched in a stunned silence as you shaved your legs, washing off the excess cream before turning so that your legs were outside the tub and drying them off with a towel. You moved to sit on the toilet seat, right across from the tub.

"Now, you try!" You urged, handing him the can of shaving cream. He gulped, putting his legs inside the tub and wetting them before lathering them up to his mid-thigh with shaving cream. He was about to start shaving, having gotten his razor wet already, but you stopped him.

"Could you turn around and shave while facing me? I want to make sure you're doing it right." You said. Hesitantly, he did as you asked, stretching his legs out on the tile floor.

"Don't worry about getting stuff on the floor," you waved his concern off before he even voiced it. "It's more important that you don't cut yourself."

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, before running the razor up his leg. You inspected the line before smiling at him.

"Looks good! Keep going!" You encouraged, and he, emboldened by your words, started shaving confidently. He was just getting rid of the last stripe of shaving cream when he nicked himself on the inside of his knee, hissing at the sharp prick of pain.

"Hold on, let me see." You said, kneeling down in front of him to inspect his knee. Using one of your hands, which was wet from the floor, you wiped off the rest of the cream, revealing a near perfect shave- perfect if not for the small cut on his knee that was just starting to bleed.

You turned and grabbed a first aid kit from under the sink, cleaning the wound before applying a waterproof band-aid and smiling up at him.

"There we go! Right as rain!" You spoke cheerily, putting the first aid kit away before returning to your spot right in front of his legs. You raised a hand to his left calf, running your hand down the now silky skin. He jolted a little but waited with baited breath to see what you would do next.

"Such a good, smooth set of legs couldn't be ruined by a little cut like this," you remarked before leaning forward and kissing the spot that you bandaged.

He could've died right then and there. The gentle feeling of your hand caressing his leg, your lips pressed to his leg, so close to his-

He felt a sensation in his shorts that was most definitely _not_ ladylike and stiffened. Quickly, he turned so that his legs were inside the tub, his back to you.

You stared at him worriedly. "I'm so sorry, did I overstep a boundary?" You asked.

"Kinda." He struggled to force it out, trying desperately to make his little problem go away before you started to get upset. Judging by your next words, it was a little too late for that.

"I'm really sorry, Marjorine, I just thought that since I've been so touchy with you that it'd be okay to take it a step further! I should have asked before trying something so stupid and intimate. Would you prefer it if I didn't touch you anymore?" You rambled, making him freeze in terror at the prospect of losing your touch. Nothing could have solved his problem faster, and he spun back around, leaning down to cup your cheeks in his hands.

"No!" He exclaimed, a little too loudly, which he amended with a cough. "No, I don't want you to stop touching me. I… I really like it." He admitted, feeling his face heat up.

You looked at him, relief obvious on your face. "Thank you so much. Did I just go too far this time?"

"Yeah." No! No, you didn't! He wanted you to touch him like that _more!_ But he knew that the only way to keep his secret was to lie, so he let it out with gritted teeth.

"And you still want to be friends, right?" You asked, something vulnerable in your expression. It just endeared him further.

"Of course." No. Despite his conflicting thoughts, he grinned. Feeling particularly brave, he leaned forward and pecked your forehead, moving back to see your stupefied expression.

"... Thanks, Jori." You mumbled, a dorky smile peeling across your face.

The both of you proceeded to have a blast at Bebe's pool, which further solidified the fact that you'd be hanging out much more often.

More days, more lessons, more lies. Marjorine's makeup got thicker, her pants changed to skirts, her shirts got tighter, she became more and more of a lady with every trip to your house while Butters became more of a liar. He had his father's handwriting down to a science at this point, and could fabricate stories with ease, especially to you. As the months went by, you and he even started becoming friends while you waited for Marjorine to return to school, which thrilled him- his plan was so successful that he didn't even need to be female to be friends with you!

Spurred by his incredible fortune, Butters began to act a little bolder as Marjorine. She would put her arm around your waist when you settled one over her shoulder, she would compliment you on a regular basis, and she even pressed kisses to your cheeks and forehead when she could get away with it. This resulted in your being even sweeter to her and taking even less shit from the guys who were chasing her tail, which made you even more attractive to Butters.

At some point, he planned on telling you that he and Marjorine were one in the same, but for now? Well, why spoil a good thing?

Today, Marjorine was making her way to your house, boy clothes stuffed in her backpack. She was dressed a little more provocatively than usual in hopes of catching your attention, with more than a little bit of makeup dotting her features.

Butters reached your door and rang the bell, waiting impatiently for you to appear. Once you did, he grinned at the sight of your momentarily stunned expression, coming in once you snapped out of it and invited him up to your room. Soon, you were both settled on soft chairs in your bedroom, and you handed him a tube of dark red liquid lipstick.

"Isn't this your favorite?" He looked at you, puzzled.

You just smiled. "Yeah, but I want to see it on you. Put it on!"

He accepted eagerly, but made you turn around so that he could use the mirror without you seeing how it turned out.

"I want it to be a surprise," he mused, swiping one last coat of it on before popping his lips and turning in his chair to look at you.

"You can look now!" He chirped, and you scoffed good-naturedly before swivelling to face him. Upon actually seeing him, however, you froze.

He shifted nervously under your gaze. "Does it look bad?" He asked shyly.

You shook your head, fighting a grin. "No, no," you assured, raising a hand to his chin and cupping it. "You're just… God, you're so beautiful."

He smiled back, leaning forward a little. You mimicked him.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable… Just, if you don't want this…" You muttered, leaning even closer to his face, eyes half-lidded. Butters was ecstatic, tense but eager, and was just about to close the gap when his thoughts gave him pause.

This didn't feel right. His lips quirked into a frown. No, it wasn't that it didn't feel right- it's that it _wasn't_ right.

"Wait," he whispered, putting a hand on your collarbone and gently pushing you away. Instantly, your eyes were open and you were moving out of his personal space.

"Oh no, I overstepped your boundaries again, didn't I? I'm so sorry-" You rushed out, voice timid and mortified before Butters cut you off.

"No, it isn't you. I… have something to tell you." He admitted, making you perk up. You sat there patiently, waiting for him to continue, and he loved you more for it.

"I'm not who you think I am," he started nervously. It was hard to talk over his heart, which was lodged in his throat at the moment. "I…"

He couldn't say it. Instead, he opted to pull his wig off, revealing his blond undercut. He looked anxiously up at you, but you still held him under that patient, slightly blank gaze. He figured you were still processing it, so he continued, finding it minutely easier to talk now that the cat was out of the bag.

"I wanted to dress like a girl because I had no real friends. I figured it would be easier for me to get close to people as a girl than a guy, and you know what? I was right! On my very first day, I made more friends than I ever had in my life! Wendy, Bebe, Lola, Heidi… you…" He looked at you with a definite softness in his eyes.

"You especially made it so much easier to be a girl than a guy. You're so sweet, and funny, and- and loving that I couldn't help but wanna be friends with you." He spoke, scowling a little at his next thoughts. "But I still had to be Butters. So I had to switch off- one week I was Marjorine, then I'd be Butters for a week. I forged sick notes to excuse my absences, and I… I told a lot of lies. Especially to you. I had to come up with fibs for a lot of the questions you asked me, and even just to explain why 'Marjorine' wasn't there some days. I just got used to it, because it was something I _had_ to do to keep you. I even lied about the ladylike thing! If I hadn't lied about the first time Marjorine was grounded, then we wouldn't even be here!" He stared at you desperately, internally begging you to understand where he was coming from.

"I don't like tellin' lies, but… for you, anything is worth it." He finished remorsefully. Finally, your face shifted, looking beleaguered. Your shoulders slumped as if he had dumped a boulder onto them- which, to be fair, he pretty much did. It took you a minute or two, but you gave him a response.

"I don't appreciate being lied to," you started with a sigh, and Butters looked down. He felt his heart drop from his throat to his feet, bumping his organs on the way down like the world's most depressing game of pinball.

"But," you cut in, causing him to look back up at you hopefully, "that's not the most important part of this situation." He couldn't help the questioning look he shot you.

"What do you identify as?" He was not expecting that question, but he already knew the answer.

"Male." It felt amazing to get that off his chest.

"Pronouns?" You inquired.

"He and him." He replied.

"What's your name?" You asked. On the surface, it sounded like a stupid question, but the gaze you two shared revealed its deep significance.

"My name is Leopold Stotch." He looked at you bravely. "But most people call me Butters."

You stared at him for a long moment.

"Are you comfortable in those clothes?" You gestured to the crop top and short jean skirt he had on. He looked down at himself, thinking it over for a second. These clothes just didn't feel right when he wasn't Marjorine.

"Kinda." He answered.

"There's no way you left the house in drag. There're boy clothes in your bag, aren't there?" You jerked your head over to where said bag lay on the floor, and Butters nodded.

"Go change." You said, and once again he nodded, scooping up the bag and padding into the bathroom down the hall. As he slipped out of the feminine outfit and put on something more his style- an aquamarine sweater and a dark green pair of jeans- he thought about how much he had changed for you. The tiny skirt he showed up to your house in was a far cry from the sweater that he had worn on his first day as Marjorine. He frowned at his reflection in the mirror, hating how un-Butters he felt. Nodding to himself, he turned on the tap, washing all the makeup off his face. Dark eyeshadow, thick eyeliner, prominent mascara, a blanket of powder and foundation and bronzer and highlighter, and last of all, your dark red lipstick; all of it melted off his face and slipped down into the drain, along with months of lies and denial. Once he wiped his face clean with a spare towel, he looked in the mirror again and actually found it within himself to smile- now _that_ was Leopold Stotch.

He returned to your bedroom to find you in the same spot, eyes shooting up to look at him. He could see some of the shock on your face and smiled nervously in response- his rapid transformation from Marjorine to Butters must have jarred you.

As he sat back down, you leaned forward, raising a hand but stopping just short of his face. Sensing your hesitation, he dropped his chin into your outstretched palm, feeling a relaxed smile spread across his face at the feeling of your fingers curling around his jaw.

"There's that handsome face I know." You crooned. "You never needed that much makeup…"

He let you marvel for a little longer before speaking up.

"So… where do we go from here?" You heaved a sigh at the question, pulling away from him.

"I don't know," you answered honestly, worrying your lip with your teeth. "You've abused my trust, but I understand why you did it. I can sympathize, even if it hurts to know that you were able to lie to my face so many times." He winced upon hearing that, but he knew it was the ugly truth.

"That being said, it's going to take a long while before I can trust you again." You made sure to continue before he could completely deflate, his resolute but heartbroken expression tugging at your soul. "But, I can't deny that I… feel something for you."

"I feel somethin' for you, too!" He rushed out, looking at you earnestly. He definitely had stronger words for it, but he didn't want to push the envelope right now.

You continued your speech regardless. "I had my suspicions about you, don't get me wrong. It must be hard to keep track of so many lies, because there were some holes in your stories, and some other things didn't make sense, like you and Marjorine having the same accent despite the fact that she lived in Hawaii. I even found the whole margarine thing that Bebe pointed out to be a little too coincidental. But even despite that, I couldn't deny that I was attracted to you. Before I started connecting the dots, I even started gravitating towards you when you were Butters, because you were so much alike. I guess that means you didn't lie about everything, since your personality was still basically the same whether you were male or female." He couldn't possibly come up with a way to describe how glad he was that you realized that.

"I really don't know if we should make something of… this. The attraction is clear, but with all that's happened, I don't know…" You trailed off. He took this as his chance to speak, his final shot at making you stay. Slowly, he reached his hands out for yours, and when you set your hands in his, he felt courage surge up through his arms and into his heart.

"Look, (Y/N), I can't imagine how you feel. Betrayed, confused, heartbroken, you probably feel horrible, and I am so truly sorry for making you feel that way. I understand you at least a little bit, because I betrayed myself, too. I gave myself up, warped myself into whatever I thought would keep your attention. I became Marjorine, and I abandoned my true self. But I'm done doing that. I'm done lying and changing myself, and I'm ready to be myself again. I don't care if I lose all my friends, and though I know it'll hurt if I lose you too, I know that I have to do this because it's the right thing. Just know that whether or not you do choose to act upon your feelings, I won't do this again. I promise you, not as Marjorine or even as Butters, but as _Leopold_." He finished, fixing you with the most emotionally intense look he had ever given you. Behind his blue eyes smoldered passion and remorse. In front of them, tears.

You looked away, seeming overwhelmed by his gaze, and paused for a long while, squeezing his hands in yours.

"... I think… I think I'm willing to give us a try." You said, looking back up at him and smiling weakly.

He could find no words. He choked on a sob, gripping your hands so tightly that it almost hurt both of you. He was hesitant to take the initiative, not wanting to break the fragile beginnings of trust that were building between the two of you.

Apparently, you could tell, because you moved your chair closer to his and drew him into your arms. He wrapped his around your waist in response, sniffling into your shoulder. Despite himself, he felt no shame for it.

"Aw, Leo, you're gonna smear your mascara." You teased, running a hand through the long hair above his ears. He couldn't take it anymore- he pulled away from your embrace and cupped your face in his hands, pressing his lips to your own. The kiss was short and didn't go farther than the surface of your lips, but it was far from innocent. Something mature and almost haggard lingered behind it, something stormy and intense that neither of you were prepared for.

He pulled away, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs and breathing out heavily.

"Thank you." He murmured. That's not what he wanted to say.

You looked hard at him, pushing a lock of hair out of his face.

"Say what you mean." You demanded, leaning in close.

With your lips so close to his own, Leo couldn't bring himself to deny your command.

"I love you." He whispered. You leaned in closer and he closed his eyes and puckered his lips, only to be confused when he felt nothing against them. He was about to open his eyes until he felt you press a feather-light kiss to one eyelid, then the other. He opened his eyes to see you staring at him adoringly, his tears shining on your lips. Something vulnerable swam in your eyes, filling him with bittersweet nostalgia- he had knocked down one more wall.

"I love you, too," you whispered. There was definitely more to that statement- a "but" or a "yet", perhaps something more complicated. Perhaps you were about to take it back, or tell him that you shouldn't. Whatever it was didn't make it past your vocal chords, and no matter whose fault that was, he found himself grateful for it. His heart was slowly drifting back up to his chest, looking to press against your own, and whatever you would say would shatter it. For now, Leo kept it unspoken, swallowing it with his lips.

For now, you loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the best one-shot I've ever written, and I don't think I can top this. I started writing it and just couldn't stop, which is why it turned out so long. I loved every second of it.


	19. Current: Henrietta Biggle/Reader

“Whatever. But I’m not wearing one of those costumes.” Henrietta griped, walking over to where you, Butthole and Mysterion were waiting to kick some vamp ass. That is, until she actually caught sight of you standing to the right of Mysterion.

“Oh, great. Why are you here?" She sighed, pointing her cigarette in your direction with a scowl. You smiled and waved.

"Hi, Henri." You greeted quietly.

"Don't fucking call me that." She groaned, looking at Mysterion with disdain. " _Why_ are they here?"

"Livewire is a Freedom Pal." Mysterion explained, raising an eyebrow at her. "I don't see what the problem is here. Do you two have history?"

"You could say that. And 'Livewire'? Seriously? Is that based on your techie nerd garbage, or did you just give yourself that name to make it more obvious that you're a manic conformist douchebag?" She glared right into your soul, and you looked away, trying to hide your smile. She really was all bark and no bite.

"Look, can we just fight these vamp assholes?" Mysterion cut in. Henrietta sighed but acquiesced, and soon you were engaged in combat with the vampires.

Henrietta got the first turn, which she used to stomp over to where you stood in front of two vamp kids. She raised her cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply, spitting out a long stream of smoke and ash which set the vamp kids on fire. Unfortunately, the blast caught a little bit of your arm.

"Oh shit!" You cried, patting the small flame on your sleeve until it went out. Henrietta shot you a concerned look, but quickly hid it behind an apathetic expression.

"Hey! No friendly fire!" Mysterion called.

"That wasn't on purpose, poser." She snarked, ending her turn by taking a couple steps back.

The vamp kids, the Coon, and Mysterion had their turns, each dealing a fair bit of damage, but finally, it was your time to shine.

"Need a jump?" You laughed, pulling a car battery off your utility belt. Deftly, you pried it open with a screwdriver and hucked the sulfuric acid inside of it at a vampire. Everyone watched as it burned a hole through their shirt and started burning their skin until they collapsed on the ground in a whimpering heap.

"Damn," Henrietta muttered, but was quick to amend her statement once your eyes lit up at her approval. "That might've been cool if it weren't you that did it."

You couldn't help but smile, raising your fists to defend yourself on the enemy's turn.

Before you knew it, the battle was over, and you were padding over to the fallen body of a vamp kid to pick up your materials.

"Are they still electrified?" Mysterion inquired, walking over and peering at the kid. You quirked your lips to the side.

"Maybe," you said, kneeling down to pick up the flip phone and metal cup. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Henrietta look over and freeze.

"What the fuck are you doing?" She asked, causing you to stop right before picking up the phone.

"Uh, retrieving my weapons?" You half-stated.

"You mean sticking your hand in a puddle of water that has an electronic lying in it. Do you want to die?" She scolded. You raised an eyebrow at her behavior.

"Henri, I have rubber gloves on." You pointed out, lifting your hands and flexing your fingers to show off the yellow rubber gloves that you never took off while you were in costume. "Plus, the phone might not even be on anymore, which significantly lowers the chance that I'll get shocked. It's fine, see?" You grabbed the phone, shaking it to get the water off of it. Henrietta stared at you for a second before looking away.

"Whatever. Let's just get this over with. And don't call me that!" She grumbled, walking off. Mysterion looked down at your kneeling form.

"Dude, what's her problem with you?" He inquired quietly. You grinned.

"She likes me, but she won't admit it. Her and her friends say that love is for posers, so she doesn't want to acknowledge that she actually has feelings for me." You explained.

"So, she treats you like shit because she likes you? What kind of kindergarten teacher logic is that?" He scoffed, crossing his arms.

"It's the truth, man. Didn't you see her just now, and during the battle when she burned me?" You argued.

"Yeah, she looked worried about you, but anyone would be." Mysterion replied.

"Aw, Ken-Ken, you were worried about me too? I knew you loved me!" You joked, fanning yourself with your hand.

"Shut up. And don't call me that!" He growled. You shot him a knowing look.

"See?" You asked, and it took him a second, but he realized what he had just said and groaned.

"Shut up." He repeated, shoving your shoulder. You flicked the water from your wet gloves on him in response before standing up and pocketing the phone and cup.

"Let's get going. We have a little girl to rescue from some Bella Swan wannabes!" You exclaimed, rushing over to the door that Mike Makowski had just fled through to find that it was locked, only to be opened after you found three more "vampire relics." You looked at the one Butthole had in his hand and rolled your eyes.

"This is so fucking lame." You bitched. To your shock, you saw Henrietta nod in silent agreement, smoke curling out of her lips from her latest drag. You felt a little hopeful- maybe she was coming around? Whatever the reason for her not mocking you was, you were sure you'd have a lot of time to figure it out. This fetch quest from Mike's stepdad sounded like a long and boring ordeal.

Three vampire relics and one ass-whooping for Mike and his stupid dad later, you and your team were fighting Corey Haim. Well, it was probably Corey Haim, he was so insignificant as a celebrity that you couldn't be bothered to fact check after Mike's obnoxious fuck of a dad said it was. It was a pretty standard fight so far, you were chucking battery acid and electrified flip phone bombs with the best of them, until one of the vampires made one particular comment.

"Get that fat bitch!"

No fucking way did he just say that. You could feel your face twist in rage as your blood started to boil, your vision taking on a slight tint of red. Henrietta looked unaffected by the comment, but you would not stand for that bullshit.

"She has fucking hypothyroidism, _you cock-sucking prick!_ " You screamed. Unfortunately, your ultimate wasn't ready on this turn, but you had one attack that you still hadn't used yet.

You grabbed a spare car battery from your utility belt, unwrapping the pair of jumper cables that you kept tied around your waist for just such an occasion. Connecting the right clips to the right prongs, you then proceeded to take another car battery out of a pouch on your belt, but this one... Oh, _this_ one. This battery was absolutely covered in shit, and the terminals were rusted nubs that could barely hold a charge. It looked a little wet on the outside, probably due to the holes in the case that allowed battery acid to weep out the sides of it. It was _perfect_.

You held the spark plugs above the ratty old battery and tapped them together, turning your face away to avoid the sparks. Once you saw the air around it ignite, you kicked it with all your might at the vampire who had talked shit about Henrietta, grinning as it exploded in his face and downed him instantly.

"Took that one from my neighbor's '83 Honda Civic. She's a beaut, ain't she?" You jeered. Henrietta looked at you in stunned silence.

"Woah..." She said, and you grinned over at her.

"Anything for you, He-" You were cut off by an excruciating pain running through your entire body. Your muscles seized violently, your next syllable caught in your throat and bounced around by the contraction of your vocal chords, and you felt like you were on fire.

You didn't even realize you had suffered from an electric shock until you collapsed to the ground and passed out, the smell of burnt hair flooding your nostrils and the sound of someone screaming your name getting quieter and quieter.

Your return to the land of the living was preceded by the smell of meds and... was that a tortilla?

"Ugh," you groaned, moving an elbow to try and prop yourself up. Before you could do so, however, someone above you gasped and pulled you up by the torso, holding you against a generous chest.

"Oh my Satan," they whispered. "(Y/N), can you hear me?"

"Yeah." You rasped, blinking rapidly to get rid of the annoying blur in your vision. "What the fuck happened? Why do I smell like Pete's room when it's hotboxed?"

The person holding you snorted, following that up with a sniffle. They looked very dark.

"Because you got fucking electrocuted, you idiot." They said.

After a couple more blinks, your sight wasn't equivalent to that of someone drunk off red wine anymore, and you realized that the person cradling you to their breasts was none other than Henrietta Biggle. She had black lines running down her face, no doubt from crying off her makeup, but she looked incredibly relieved.

"On the contrary, my dear Henri," you began with a weak but mischievous grin, "I was shocked, not electrocuted. If I was electrocuted, I'd be dead."

"Shut the fuck up, (Y/N)." She laughed, but it sounded more like a sob.

"Hey, you didn't tell me not to call you Henri!" You exclaimed, coughing afterwards. "Does that mean I'm getting somewhere with you?"

"Love is for posers." She replied, lifting a hand from your back to wipe futilely at her eyes. "But... What kind of poser gets their ass doused in water and shocked within an inch of their stupid life just to defend someone from a lame insult?"

"A dumb one?" You replied cheekily. This time, she really did laugh, wholly and completely. It was a shockingly pretty noise, especially considering the fact that you hadn't ever heard it before.

"Yeah. A really dumb one." She told you.

"... Do you happen to like really dumb posers?" You raised your eyebrows suggestively.

"No." Well, that was no shock. She paused, seeming to consider her words before groaning. "There's no fucking way to go about this without sounding like a conformist dickbag, is there?"

"Whatever it is you're talking about, probably not." You looked at her expectantly, only for her to reach a hand to her neck and pull her cross necklace off of it. She threw it over your neck, settling the cross on your chest.

"If I'm going to... date you," the word look like it physically pained her to say, "you'd better be at least a little bit goth. That way, it won't stab my soul as much whenever I see you running around acting like a conformist with your stupid superhero friends."

"You mean, you want Pete, Michael, and Firkle not to piss and moan as much when you inevitably tell them that you're dating me." I countered. She stared down at me.

"... Feel lucky that you know me well enough, otherwise I wouldn't bother finding room for you in my black, empty heart." She sighed.

You grinned at that, looking around for Mysterion and seeing him hovering behind the both of you, probably trying to make sure you were okay.

"Did you hear that, Ken-Ken? She really does like me!"

Neither of them could suppress the loud, agonized groans that escaped their throats.

You smiled, waiting for the three magic words that you knew you would get out of at least one of them without fail.

"Shut up, (Y/N)."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Henrietta particularly popular? No.
> 
> Do I care? Not in the slightest.


End file.
